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...
No matter how deeply I go down
into myself,
My God is dark, and like a webbing
made of a hundred roots
that drink in silence.