XXXV
The Goal
Each life converges to some centreExpressed or still;Exists in every human natureA goal,
Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,Too fairFor credibility’s temerityTo dare.
Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,To reachWere hopeless as the rainbow’s raimentTo touch,
Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance;How highUnto the saints’ slow diligenceThe sky!
Ungained, it may be, by a life’s low venture,But then,Eternity enables the endeavoringAgain.