A gentle stream through mossy stones did glide, Beneath the willow’s gracefully bowed shade. It murmured tales of journeys far and wide, Of mountain snows in sunlit hues displayed. Two children sat upon its grassy brink, Their small hands skimming currents cool and clear. They wondered where the wandering waters sink, What distant shores those liquid songs might hear. The brook replied in ripples silver-bright: “I carry dreams from valleys yet unseen, Where herons dance in golden morning ligh...
