A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles nest, Of cloud-kissed peaks in everlasting rest. Two children pause their afternoon’s sweet play, To watch the water dance and slip away. They dream of journeys to the distant west, Where sunsets paint the sky and never rest. The brook flows on to join the river wide, Its tiny voice still singing, side by side, With greater currents, on to meet the sea— A timeless,...
