The canyon bleeds, then deepens and darkens ... A sliver of white moon in the east. Thin Light spills into the gorge and the river sings an ancient song. At the edge of shadow, night: dark stone, pine scent, water, cascading Light.
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
From God, who is our home ...
~ from "Intimations of Immortality" by William Wordsworth
