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, He listens to the water’s timeless cog. His memories like autumn leaves descend, Each ripple seems a long-lost friend to send. The brook flows on to lands it does not know, Beneath the moon’s soft and dreamy glow. It carries tales of joy and gentle sorrow, Promising a brighter new...