| 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! |
| Shades of the prison-house begin to close |
| Upon the growing Boy, |
| But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, |
| He sees it in his joy; |
| The Youth, who daily farther from the east |
| Must travel, still is Nature's priest, |
| And by the vision splendid |
| Is on his way attended; |
| At length the Man perceives it die away, |
| And fade into the light of common day. |