1 Move him into the sun— 2 Gently its touch awoke him once, 3 At home, whispering of fields half-sown. 4 Always it woke 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.. 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
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Move him into the sun— Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields unso… Always it awoke him, even in Fran… Until this morning and this snow. Loading. All. Well known.. Other works by Wilfred Owen. My Shy Hand. My shy hand shades a hermitage apa… O large enough for thee, and thy b…. Futility Wilfred Owen. 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.
