A gentle stream through mossy stones does glide, Reflecting clouds that in its bosom sleep; No worldly clamors dare to interrupt its tide, While ancient pines their solemn vigil keep. A heron stands in stillness, silver-gray, As maple leaves descend in crimson flight; The moon will grace these waters come the night To weave a dream of never-fading day. Thus flows the stream with soft, enduring song— A timeless tale where peace and grace belong.
