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