There is a silent spell within the setting sun, a strange and mystic poetry which fills the soul. There is a soft refrain within the falling snow, and every flake is like a gently tolling bell. There is a song that nature sings which man must learn to learn. But still his part is hid from him, for he knows not how the world turns.
I saw a river moving slow while mist fell from the sky. I wonder who I know that knows what’s real, and why we have to die. So on and on, the river always flows.
Tale Told 