A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles nest, Of cloud-kissed peaks in everlasting rest. Two children once upon its banks did play, Who chased the sunlight, banished gloom away. They built a boat of oak leaf and of twine, And launched their dreams upon that liquid sign. The seasons turned, the children went their ways, Yet still the brook its ancient melody plays. It hums of time that flows and does not ...
