One day someone will pluck me out of the pool
I will be saved. Save me.
No one ever did, I swam up and down,
Possibly for years, probably for days.
This morning I woke up and there
In front of my face the word RESCUE
So I jump in and now side by side
soaking and soggy we sit smiling
safely at futility…
Futility by Wilfred Owen
Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields half-sown.
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?