I have been in love with this poem this week.
William Wordsworth- “Ode on Intimations of Immortality”
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.
-The picture is of Sister Gardner in a small Book Swap Booth-