A Word's Worth.

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.

--William Wordsworth