Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent waters gently flow, A lonely pine stands by the stream, Whispering tales of long ago. It speaks of travelers’ weary feet, Of lovers’ vows in twilight made, Of seasons changing slow and sweet, Beneath its everlasting shade. The wind composes through its boughs A melody both old and deep, That time herself forgets to pause, And mountains from their slumbers keep. So listen when the night winds sigh - The ancient tree still tells its truth To st...
