A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles nest, Of moonlit dewdrops on the willow’s breast. A traveler paused to hear its murmuring tune, And saw his youth reflected ‘neath the moon. The water spoke of journeys yet untrod, Of paths that lead away from man and god. He left his staff upon the bank to rest, And let the current guide him further west. Where brook and sky in twilight softly blend, He found the ...
