From hidden springs up high on mountain’s crest,
Enshrouded by dense wood and morning mist,
And found where none but stalwart men persist,
There flows a stream whose waters offer rest,
New life, and satisfaction to repressed
And hopeless travelers who dare subsist
On its cool flow alone, who won’t desist,
Though all their wealth, for it, be dispossessed.
The pilgrim longing for life’s fountainhead
Embarks upon a journey fraught with spite,
For most consider his sought stream as dead
And paths to it too strenuous to fight.
God grant this desperate traveler grace widespread,
For you’re the stream I seek on mountain’s height.
© 2011 Eric Evans