Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent mountains guard the stream, A lonely pine begins to sing Of ancient dreams on breeze-borne wing. Two travelers pause amidst the stone, Hearing a tune from ages flown, One hears a lover’s long-lost sigh, One hears a king’s last battle-cry. The wind composes, branch by branch, A symphony that makes time stanch, Till dawn arrives with gold-rimmed light— The pines keep whispering through the night.
