Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent waters gently stream, A lonely pine tree stands in thought, With ancient wisdom time has wrought. Its needles murmur tales of old, Of winters harsh and summers gold, Of lovers’ vows in twilight made, And dreams beneath its boughs that fade. A traveler rests against its bark, And listens to the forest’s dark, While stars above like diamonds gleam, And weave his sorrows into dream. The wind sings through the branches high, A lullaby to earth an...
