A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns embrace. Two ancient pines their shading branches leave, To trace slow patterns on the water’s face. A deer descends with cautious, dappled tread, To drink the sky reversed in liquid glass. The mountain’s breath in misty clouds is shed, Where time itself permits the hours to pass. No human foot disturbs this hidden sphere, Where dragonflies on jewelled wings alight. The moon will find these waters just as clear,...