A gentle stream through mossy stones does flow, Its murmured secrets only wise men know. It speaks of seasons passing with the tide, Of ancient oaks that stand in quiet pride. A traveler paused to hear its liquid song, And in its notes found where he did belong. The water told of journeys yet untried, Of mountains high and valleys deep and wide. He followed where the silver currents led, Through fields of green where dancing sunbeams played. The brook flowed onward, never looking back, A shim...
