A River Runs Through It poem

From Intimations of Life by William Wordsworth

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath 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:

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will 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;

And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills and groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live.
To me the neanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.