A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles nest, Of cloud-kissed peaks in everlasting rest. A leaf descends, a dancer on the air, To join the water with a silent care. It journeys on through sun-dappled shade, A liquid path by nature’s hand is made. The evening star awakens, pale and clear, As twilight settles, soft and drawing near. The brook flows on, a timeless, murmured rhyme, Against the gentle, slow a...
