1 Move him into the sun–

2 Gently its touch awoke him once,

3 At home, whispering of fields unsown.

4 Always it awoke him, even in France,

5 Until this morning and this snow.

6 If anything might rouse him now

7 The kind old sun will know.

8 Think how it wakes the seeds–

9 Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.

10 Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides

11 Full-nerved,–still warm,–too hard to stir?

12 Was it for this the clay grew tall?

13 –O what made fatuous sunbeams toil

14 To break earth’s sleep at all?