A gentle stream through mossy stones does flow, Where weeping willows dip their leaves so low. A traveler paused to hear its murmured song, A tale of seasons passing, swift and long. It spoke of springtime blooms in colors bright, Of summer moons that bathed the world in light, Then autumn’s gold that danced on every tree, And winter’s hush, when all the world would freeze. The man sat listening till the sun grew dim, And found his weary heart had joined the hymn. No grand advice or wisdom wa...
