Beside the mossy stones, the brook does flow, A silver thread through emerald fields it weaves. It murmurs secrets to the willows low, And dances lightly ‘neath the sunlit leaves. The ancient pines stand guard on yonder hill, Their branches swaying in the gentle breeze. While birds above in joyful chorus trill, Their melodies float through the rustling trees. A traveler pauses on the winding way, To drink the peace that nature here imparts. Where sunlight dances and the shadows play, This qui...
