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Was it for this the clay grew tall? o what made fatuous sunbeams toil to break earth's sleep at all?
-Wilfred Owen
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Was It For This The Clay Grew

Wilfred Owen
Was it for this the clay grew tall? o what made fatuous sunbeams toil to break earth's sleep at all?
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Sleep Clay Toil

More From Wilfred Owen

Futility 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?
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This clay, so strong of heart, of sense so fine,surely such clay is more than half divine--'tis only fools speak evil of the clay,the very stars are made of clay like mine.
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If you want knowledge, you must toil for it; if food, you must toil for it; and if pleasure, you must toil for it: toil is the law.
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Things break all the time. glass and dishes and fingernails. cars and contracts and potato chips. you can break a record, a horse, a dollar. you can break the ice. there are coffee breaks and lunch breaks and prison breaks. day breaks, waves break, voices break. chains can be broken. so can silence, and fever... promises break. hearts break.
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Go back, go back to sleep. yes, you are allowed. you who have no love in your heart, you can go back to sleep. the power of love is exclusive to us, you can go back to sleep. i have been burnt by the fire of love. you who have no such yearning in your heart, go back to sleep. the path of love, has seventy-two folds and countless facets. your love and religion is all about deceit, control and hypocrisy, go back to sleep. i have torn to pieces my robe of speech, and have let go of the desire to converse. you who are not naked yet, you can go back to sleep.
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Toil is man's allotment; toil of brain, or toil of hands, or a grief that's more than either, the grief and sin of idleness.
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