A gentle stream through mossy stones does wind,

Its silver song a balm to troubled mind.

It carves its path where ancient willows weep,

And secrets to the thirsty roots does keep.

It saw the empires rise and fall to dust,

In its cool flow, a timeless, patient trust.

It murmurs tales of love and of despair,

To any quiet soul who pauses there.

So come and rest upon its shaded bank,

And for a while, give silent, grateful thanks.