Poemsby Emily Dickinson

The Goal

 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.