Voiceless are these wanderer's thought,
That once had been but whispered not.
That once had been but whispered not.
The burbling of a creek so lush
Does spill o'er the bank and brush.
Does spill o'er the bank and brush.
Of the wayward traveler who passing by,
Stopped to listen and beside it lie.
Stopped to listen and beside it lie.
Who reaches for the sky but heavens not,
For in the water he saw aloft,
For in the water he saw aloft,
Clouds pure white in azure drift,
Awash in rivulets so flowing swift.
And quietly did the wanderer sigh,
For the world of dreams was upon him nigh.
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