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 fallen leaf, a tiny golden boat, Upon its current lazily doth float. It carries dreams of journeys yet untold, In shades of amber, crimson, and of gold. The ancient pines, they listen and they sigh, As silent stars begin to fill the sky. This liquid thread, so humble and so deep, Guards secrets that the granite cli...
