A gentle stream through mossy stones does wind, Its silver voice a balm to troubled mind. It sings of mountains where the eagles stray, And shadows lengthen at the close of day. It carries tales of blossoms, soft and white, That dance upon the breeze in pale moonlight. Of willow branches dipping low to drink, And dragonflies that skim the water’s brink. The water flows, though seasons come and go, Through fields of green and winter’s silent snow. It murmurs on, a never-ending rhyme, Beyond th...
