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Passions in Poetry1928 West-Running Brook
A Soldier
by Robert Frost

 

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Passions in Poetry Home > All Poems > Classic Poetry > Robert Frost > 1928 West-Running Brook > Immigrants Immigrants
Robert Frost
Poetry | Biography
1928 West-Running Brook
A Soldier
by Robert Frost

He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it ploughed 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.

 

Poem submitted by: Ron

Submission Notes: None

Classic Home > Robert Frost > 1928 West-Running Brook >> Immigrants Immigrants
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A Soldier

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