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 come/ from God Who is our Home.
Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows/ Like harmony in music; there is a dark/ Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles/ Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
William Worsdworth