Futility  11733

  • Poem
  • by
  • first line (public domain):
    Move him into the sun—
    Gently its touch awoke him and 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.
  • Language:
  • Categories

Locations in Harold's Library

Array
(
    [_edit_last] => Array
        (
            [0] => 1
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    [_edit_lock] => Array
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            [0] => 1562490187:1
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    [inlibrary] => Array
        (
            [0] => "11598"
            [1] => "14328"*p1390
            [2] => "17349"*p135
            [3] => "13461"*p170
            [4] => "23646"*p130
            [5] => "17840"*p76
        )

    [firstline] => Array
        (
            [0] => Move him into the sun— / Gently its touch awoke him and 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.|p
        )

)

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