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
The sun is compared to God, as if it were omniscient, or all-knowing. The mood of this stanza is calm; the reference to “the kind old sun” reminiscent of a benign grandparent.  The  onomatopoeic  “whispering” in the third line is gentle, like a parent waking a child. The following stanza is in direct contrast.