I'e always loved this part of Wordsworth's pome, Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood, which is the 7th stanza:

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years' darling of a pigmy size!
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learnèd art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.

Now if that ain't a picture of childhood. Just what is that little plan or chart at his feet? Is it Fate?

I love the last two lines, about his vocation being endless imitation. I have often felt, as I study my own human behavior, the line between what is imitation and what is original is blurry. In fact, I wonder if anything I have done does not bear the mark, the imprint of my parents, my siblings, or some Other. I would like to think that everything I do is Original Me, Pat, OG ME, but actually it's an imitation of someone or something else. At least I can say I imitate very well.