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Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Poem: Wordsworth

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
the soul that rises with us, our Life's star
hath had elsewhere in 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 in it his joy.

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