Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good. Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares! The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The soul that rises with us, our lifes 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.