Poem by Emily Elizabeth 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.

1. A Shady Friend for Torrid Days
2. Sight
3. The Thought Beneath So Slight a Film
4. Portraits Are to Daily Faces
5. The Butterfly's Assumption-Gown

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