Are yet a master-light of all our seeing

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting
The soul that rises with us, like a 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!
Those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing.


Source: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood,
William Wordsworth

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