A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy willows please. It tells of mountains where the cloud-wreaths cleave, And mirrors in its flow the bending trees. The moon, a pearl upon its darkening face, Guides home the fisher’s boat with silent light. Here time itself has found a slower pace, And day dissolves into the peace of night. So drink the stillness from this water clear, Let all your restless thoughts like ripples fade. The brook’s old wisdom, murmured to...
