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'!