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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.
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