A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles stray, And shadows dance at closing of the day. An old man sits upon a weathered log, His thoughts as deep as morning’s early fog. He hears the water’s age-old, soft refrain, That speaks of joy and soothes the hidden pain. The brook flows on, to distant lands unknown, Its whispered tales in every ripple shown. It carves its path with patience through the years, And...
