Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, A lonely traveler follows a fading stream. Through whispering pines the night winds sigh, As distant stars light paths gone by. He recalls a voice from summers past, When laughter in the valley cast A spell that made the mountains seem As gentle as a waking dream. Now frost has touched the autumn ground, And silent are all familiar sounds. Yet in the cold, a truth he finds— Some journeys live within our minds. The path may end, the miles may cease, But pe...
