. . . 'trailing clouds of glory we come. . . '

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.

from:

Ode 

Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

by William Wordsworth. 

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