A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy willows please. It tells of mountains where the cloud-aisles cleave, And carves its patience through the centuries. No haste it knows, yet never does it rest, By flowering bank or root-encircled wall, It sings the journey from the highland’s crest To join the river’s wide, embracing call. So flows our life—a momentary gleam, A fleeting whisper in the eternal theme.
