Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent waters gently flow, A lonely pine shares ancient dreams With passing winds that come and go. Its needles trace tales on the earth Of seasons turned and years long passed, Of winter’s frost and summer’s mirth, Of shadows that the mountains cast. One night a traveler paused to hear The tree’s faint song upon the air— A melody both strange and clear That softened burdens, eased despair. He slept beneath those sheltering boughs And woke to dawn’s...
