Poemsby Emily Dickinson

IX
XI

Forgotten

 There is a word
Which bears a sword
Can pierce an armed man.
It hurls its barbed syllables,—
At once is mute again.
But where it fell
The saved will tell
On patriotic day,
Some epauletted brother
Gave his breath away.
 Wherever runs the breathless sun,
Wherever roams the day,
There is its noiseless onset,
There is its victory!
 Behold the keenest marksman!
The most accomplished shot!
Time's sublimest target
Is a soul 'forgot'!