The Martyrs. By Emily Dickinson

   Through the straight pass of suffering    The martyrs even trod,    Their feet upon temptation,    Their faces upon God.     A stately, shriven company;    Convulsion playing round,    Harmless as streaks of meteor    Upon a planet’s bound.     Their faith the everlasting troth;    Their expectation fair;    The needle to the north degree    Wades so, through polar air.