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 moon’s pale light. Of ancient pines that guard the silent hill, Where all, save babbling water, lies still. It murmurs secrets to the thirsty ground, The sweetest melody that e’er was found. A timeless hymn that nature does compose, Which neit...

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 moon’s pale light. Of ancient pines that guard the silent hill, Where all, save babbling water, lies still. It murmurs secrets to the thirsty ground, The sweetest melody that e’er was found. A timeless hymn that nature does compose, Which neit...