A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy ferns believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles nest, Of moonlit dewdrops on the willow’s breast. A traveler paused, his weary heart to still, And drank the music from the flowing rill. The water spoke of ages long since passed, Of friendships forged and bitter sorrows cast. He left his burden on the grassy shore, And sought the peace he had been searching for. The brook flows on, its wisdom soft and deep, A tim...
