A Soldier

He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust.
If we who sight along it round the world,
See nothing worthy to have been its mark,
It is because like men we look too near,
Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,
Our missiles always make too short an arc.
They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect
The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;
They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.
But this we know, the obstacle that checked
And tripped the body, shot the spirit on
Further than target ever showed or shone.

by Robert Frost

Comments (1)

This poem interests me, Suzanne, because I've thought about these things myself. Considering that in these bodies we're all inside time which passes, I think we're all fireflies. We're told the stars themselves—or the twinkling we experience of them—are memories millions of light years old. With you I'll listen to crickets in whom I might glimpse what is outside time—besides all they do for me in time. -Glen