William Wordsworth

1 Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor 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

2 The best portion of a good man's life: his little, nameless unremembered acts of kindness and love.

3 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 

4 My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man.