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