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… - William Wordsworth

Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home.

But trailing clouds of glory do we come from God, who is our home.

Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on, Through words and things, a dim and perilous way.

Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.

Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.