Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lone deer treads on frosty ground, No hunter’s distant horn does sound. The pines whisper tales of ancient days, Of blooming springs and autumn’s haze, Their branches write on skies above, A verse of peace, a song of love. Yet in this stillness, hearts may hear Echoes of joy, or unshed tear— For nature holds both calm and storm, In every form, her truths take form.
