A gentle stream through mossy stones does glide, Reflecting clouds that in its surface glide. It tells no tales of grandeur or of pride, But sings the song the willow trees confide. Two children once upon its bank did play, And watched their paper boats meander far away. They spoke of dreams as light as summer’s ray, Beneath the warmth of one sun’s golden sway. Now years have passed, the brook still flows the same, Though one child seeks the mountains none can tame, While by the water, one re...
