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?