57547: Futility

<p dir="ltr"> Move him into the sun -- <br> Gently its touch awoke him once, <br> At home, whispering of fields half-sown. <br> Always it woke him, even in France, <br> Until this morning and this snow. <br> If anything might rouse him now <br> The kind old sun will know. <br>Think how it wakes the seeds -- <br> Woke once the clays of a cold star. <br> Are limbs, so dear achieved, are sides <br> Full-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir? <br> Was it for this the clay grew tall? <br> -- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil <br> To break earth's sleep at all?</p>