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 William Wordsworth. 1770–1850 Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early…
Meaghan Walsh Gerard
writer. photographer. woman of letters.