A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the rustling reeds perceive. It tells of mountains where the eagles stray, And shadows dance at closing of the day. A lonely traveler pauses by its side, To hear the tales its flowing waters hide. Of spring’s first bloom, of winter’s frosty breath, Of silent dreams beyond the bridge of death. The sun descends in hues of gold and red, Yet still the brook’s ancient lore is said. It flows forever, timeless and profound, In every ri...

A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the rustling reeds perceive. It tells of mountains where the eagles stray, And shadows dance at closing of the day. A lonely traveler pauses by its side, To hear the tales its flowing waters hide. Of spring’s first bloom, of winter’s frosty breath, Of silent dreams beyond the bridge of death. The sun descends in hues of gold and red, Yet still the brook’s ancient lore is said. It flows forever, timeless and profound, In every ri...