A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles nest, Of cloud-kissed peaks in sunset’s fiery vest. A fallen leaf upon its current rides, Past tangled roots where secret water hides. The ancient pines stand witness to its flow, Their whispered wisdom only breezes know. Two hundred years these banks have seen it pass— A liquid mirror made of light and glass. Yet still it sings the melody of time, In perfect, ever...
