A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave,

Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe.

It tells of mountains where the eagles stray,

And petals borne upon a springtime’s fray.

A traveler paused to hear its liquid rhyme,

And glimpsed his younger self in cooler clime.

The water spoke of journeys yet untrod,

Beneath the watchful quiet of the god.

The sun dipped low in crimson and in gold,

A tale of evening mysteries foretold.

He rose, and with the brook’s sweet sound imbued,

Walked on through twilight’s grateful solitude.