A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave,

Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe.

It tells of mountains where the eagles stray,

And shadows dance at closing of the day.

An old man sits upon a weathered log,

His thoughts as deep as morning’s lifting fog.

He recalls youth—how swift the years have flown,

Like autumn leaves in winds before unknown.

Yet in the water’s constant, soft refrain,

He finds the peace that follows summer’s rain.

For though all things must change and pass away,

The brook’s clear truth forever will stay.

A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave,

Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe.

It tells of mountains where the eagles stray,

And shadows dance at closing of the day.

An old man sits upon a weathered log,

His thoughts as deep as morning’s lifting fog.

He recalls youth—how swift the years have flown,

Like autumn leaves in winds before unknown.

Yet in the water’s constant, soft refrain,

He finds the peace that follows summer’s rain.

For though all things must change and pass away,

The brook’s clear truth forever will stay.