But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.
My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.