That such a feeling can survive in any man, or
that there was ever a time since his infancy when he could have
regarded this visible world as anything but what it actually is--the
stage to which he has been summoned to play his brief but important
part, with painted blue and green scenery for background--becomes
incredible. Nevertheless, I know that in me, old as I am, this same
primitive faculty which manifested itself in my early boyhood, still
persists, and in those early years was so powerful that I am almost
afraid to say how deeply I was moved by it.
It is difficult, impossible I am told, for any one to recall his
boyhood exactly as it was. It could not have been what it seems to the
adult mind, since we cannot escape from what we are, however great our
detachment may be; and in going back we must take our present selves
with us: the mind has taken a different colour, and this is thrown
back upon our past. The poet has reversed the order of things when he
tells us that we come trailing clouds of glory, which melt away and
are lost as we proceed on our journey. The truth is that unless we
belong to the order of those who crystallize or lose their souls on
their passage, the clouds gather about us as we proceed, and as cloud-
compellers we travel on to the very end.
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