A River Runs Through It

       Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

 

　　The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 

 

　　Hath had elsewhere it's 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: 

　　

　　 

 

　　Though nothing can bring back the hour 

 

　　Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 

 

　　We will grieve not, rather find 

 

　　Strength in what remains behind, 

 

　　In the primal sympathy 

 

　　Which having been must ever be,

 

　　In the soothing thoughts that spring 

 

　　Out of human suffering; 

 

　　In the faith that looks through death, 

　　 

　

 

　　Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 

 

　　Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,

 

　　To me the meanest flower that blows can give 

 

　　Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.