War, and the pity of War

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?

I know Blackadder made a crack about the “the suffering, the horror, the endless poetry” but I have a soft spot for Wilfred Owen.

Poor bastard died a week before the war ended.

In life, as in poetry, timing is everything.