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'!