The Stream


Behind my home, a dark stream winds itself across smooth stones,
So gently it carries fallen leaves to their final places of rest,
Somewhere they gather beyond the end of the stream,
Flowing without stopping, it ever carries its leafy guest,

Under the dim light of the moon it does the peaceful work,
For the stream has no choice in matters of life or death,
But simply it must obey the course set for all streams,
To cover the shame of stones and stumps within its depth.

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