Flexing my English major muscles

I wouldn't consider myself a rabid Emily Dickinson fan, but this one poem of hers has been knocking around my head for at least the last two years, and I think it sums up my views of what I want out of a job (not to mention my life) much better than I ever could:

I dwell in Possibility--
A fairer House than Prose--
More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--

Of Chambers as the Cedars--
Impregnable of Eye--
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky--

Of Visitors--the fairest--
For Occupation--This--
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise--

I wrote an op-ed about this poem for my college's newspaper a couple of years ago, and I find my assumption that I'd have my pick of job offers simultaneously cute and pathetic, sort of like in elementary school, when I was convinced I could make a fortune by mashing up mountain laurel petals and selling them as perfume. (In case you're wondering, crushed flower petals stuffed into water bottles do not make perfume. They make a wilted, stinky mess.) But I still stand by the words I wrote. I still believe--perhaps more strongly than ever, now--that I have a moral obligation to the greatest amount of good I can do. And although I'm no longer counting on Paradise, I am spreading wide my hands, waiting for something to fall into them.