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, On liquid glass it silently doth float. It carries dreams of sunbeams warm and deep, Where ancient, slumbering forest secrets keep. The water’s murmur, soft and low and clear, Has hummed its tranquil tune for many a year. It speaks not of great battles, fear, or strife, But of the q...
