Analysis of Futility
Wilfred Edward Salter Owen 1893 – 1918
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?
|Metre||110101 10110111 11100111 11111001 01110011 1101111 011111 111101 11011011 11110111 11111111 11110111 11110011 111111|
|Closest metre||Iambic tetrameter|
|Stanza Lengths||7, 7|
|Letters per line (avg)||26|
|Words per line (avg)||6|
|Letters per stanza (avg)||182|
|Words per stanza (avg)||44|
Submitted on August 03, 2020
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 27 sec read
- 16 Views
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"Futility" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2023. Web. 28 May 2023. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/56946/futility>.
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