A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles stray, And shadows dance at closing of the day. An old willow dips its leaves to hear The water’s tales both far and near. It speaks of rain that kissed the highland heather, And journeys through all kinds of weather. A traveler paused to drink its clear, cold grace, And saw his own reflection in that place. The brook flowed on, its story never done, Beneath the mo...