Futility

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?

Wilfred Owen (1893 - 1918)

Owen was killed in action in the early days of November 1918. His parents received news of his death at the same time as they heard about the Armistice. It is believed that he wrote this poem after witnessing the death of a young soldier.

The images are of another young soldier who died in the final months of that conflict. He was 19.