Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s star,
        Hath somewhere else 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 - Ode : Intimations of Immortality
'My world', whispered the father to his daughter, 'is a secret world of veils and mists. It is an «otherworld», an invisible realm. The veil between our visible world and the world I am telling you about is gossamer-thin. To reach this world your imaginative spirit will travel on water and over narrow bridges.'
The child listened and she saw it all.

'My world is a world of music and beauty', said the mother. 'Music that is played and sung. Music that tells fabulous stories. Music that transports the soul. Music that nourishes the mind. Can you hear it ?'
The child heard it and she saw it clearly.


                                               Maggie Wilson