A silver stream through mossy stones does creep, Where willows dip their leaves to drink and sleep. It tells of mountains where the eagles fly, And paints the cloudless azure of the sky. A traveler paused to hear its murmured song, That through the green-veiled alley flowed along. It sang of time, of seasons passing by, Of endless cycles ‘neath the sun’s great eye. He left the path, by liquid notes beguiled, And in his heart, the world grew reconciled. The water’s wisdom, ancient, clear and d...
