A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles nest, Of cloud-kissed peaks in everlasting rest. Two ancient pines upon the bank converse, In creaking tongues of sun and wind and thirst. They watch the seasons paint the land anew, While deep their roots in steadfast earth still grew. A traveler pauses, hearing water’s rhyme, And for a moment, steps from hurried time. The brook flows on, a liquid, light-filled th...