The Goal. By Emily Dickinson

  Each life converges to some centre
    Expressed or still;
    Exists in every human nature
    A goal,

    Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,
    Too fair
    For credibility’s temerity
    To dare.

    Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,
    To reach
    Were hopeless as the rainbow’s raiment
    To touch,

    Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance;
    How high
    Unto the saints’ slow diligence
    The sky!

    Ungained, it may be, by a life’s low venture,
    But then,
    Eternity enables the endeavoring