The Whispering Brook
A gentle stream through mossy stones does stray, Reflecting ferns that dip and lightly sway. It tells no tales of grandeur or of might, But hums of dawn that breaks the hold of night. Two children pause upon its grassy shore, To skip smooth rocks and wonder at its lore. One stone, sun-bleached and worn by seasons’ flow, Becomes a ship where make-believe winds blow. They speak of dreams that only brooks can hear— Of climbing oaks that hold the stars so near. The water listens, shimmering and c...
The Whispering Brook
A gentle stream through mossy stones does stray, Reflecting ferns that dip and lightly sway. It tells no tales of grandeur or of might, But hums of dawn that breaks the hold of night. Two children pause upon its grassy shore, To skip smooth rocks and wonder at its lore. One stone, sun-bleached and worn by seasons’ flow, Becomes a ship where make-believe winds blow. They speak of dreams that only brooks can hear— Of climbing oaks that hold the stars so near. The water listens, shimmering and c...
