The Wanderer

Through a stormy winter’s morn,

With rain’s tempestuous torrent poured

Upon the gray and chilly ground,

A weathered, weary trav’ler’s found.


Many weeks ago he went

Forth to seek where Fortune bent,

O’er hill and dale, ‘neath moon and sun,

And followed where the rivers run.


He seeks for myst’ries long forgot,

Which Time has lost, but Hope has not,

And secrets of the shaded past,

That ’til the end of earth shall last.


Thus, the downpour sways him not

As on he presses, on he walks,

To vanquish untold, unknown things;

Awaits he now his childhood dreams.

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