Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we comeFrom God,
Who is our home.
"Intimations of Immortality from the Recollections of Early Childhood," by William Wordsworth
No comments:
Post a Comment