Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recalls a stream Where laughing children once did play Through golden hours of yesterday. Its needles murmur tales untold Of lovers’ vows and courage bold, Of whispered secrets on the air, Of sorrows it was made to bear. Each ring within its weathered core Holds winters seen, a hundred or more, Yet still it stands with grace and might, A sentinel through day and night. The wind composes through its boughs A hymn for every soul that vows To...
