Poemsby 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 Again.