Tuesday, June 06, 2006

A poem by William Wordsworth

Those words of Wordsworth’s lie deep and dear. What is it that we are forgetting? What is it that we know but remember not? Even lifelong, impassioned friends sometimes forget to take the best from each other in these ego centered times....

From "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood"

"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!"

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