A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles nest, Of evening skies in amber hues undressed. Two children once upon its banks did play, Who chased the light of one long summer’s day. They built a boat of birch bark, strong and true, To sail the world where dream and reality grew. The seasons turned, the children went their ways, Yet still the brook its ancient melody plays. It hums of time that flows and does...

A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles nest, Of evening skies in amber hues undressed. Two children once upon its banks did play, Who chased the light of one long summer’s day. They built a boat of birch bark, strong and true, To sail the world where dream and reality grew. The seasons turned, the children went their ways, Yet still the brook its ancient melody plays. It hums of time that flows and does...