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:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy,
At length the man perceives it die away
And fade into the light of common day.
Written by William Wordsworth
PHOTO CREDIT : VIKTOR FORGACS
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