Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, An ancient pine recounts a dream Of whispered tales through rustling boughs That time itself cannot arouse. A traveler paused in twilight’s hue To hear what only pines construe - How mountains wear their robes of mist, How stars by midnight’s hand are kissed. The wind composed in branches high A lullaby for earth and sky, While roots drank deep from hidden streams That fuel the forest’s silent schemes. Now every needle holds a verse In nature’s universal ...
