Death is the quiet haven of us all.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.
But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
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.