Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: |
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The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, |
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Hath had elsewhere its setting, |
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And cometh from afar: |
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Not in entire forgetfulness, |
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And not in utter nakedness, |
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But trailing clouds of glory do we come |
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From God, who is our home: |
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Heaven lies about us in our infancy! |
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Shades of the prison-house begin to close |
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Upon the growing Boy, |
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But he |
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Beholds the light, and whence it flows, |
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He sees it in his joy; |
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The Youth, who daily farther from the east |
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Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, |
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And by the vision splendid |
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Is on his way attended; |
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At length the Man perceives it die away, |
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And fade into the light of common day. |
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