him into the sun—
its touch awoke him once,
home, whispering of fields unsown.
it woke him, even in France,
this morning and this snow.
anything might rouse him now
kind old sun will know.
how it wakes the seeds,—
once, the clays of a cold star.
limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
warm—too hard to stir?
it for this the clay grew tall?
what made fatuous sunbeams toil
break earth’s sleep at all?