Move him into the sun -
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know

Think how it wakes the seeds, -
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved - still warm -
Too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?

[Text: Wilfread Owen (1893-1918) / Music: Kailer]