<h2> Futility </h2>
<p>Move him into the sun—<br/>
Gently its touch awoke him once,<br/>
At home, whispering of fields unsown.<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/>
<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?<br/></p>
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