A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy willows please. It tells of mountains where the cloud-wreaths cleave, And mirrors in its heart the flowering trees. A traveler paused to hear its murmuring tune, And saw his cares within those clear depths drown. The water spoke of journeys to the moon, And stars that in its dark embrace slip down. It sang of seasons turning in its flow— The blossom’s kiss, the winter’s crystal crown— Then whispered secrets that the w...
