Beside the mossy stones, the brook does flow, A silver thread through emerald fields it weaves. It murmurs secrets to the willows low, And dances lightly ‘neath the sunlit leaves. It tells of mountains where the eagles soar, Of hidden glens where shy wildflowers bloom. It sings of peace from some forgotten shore, Dispelling shadows and all thoughts of gloom. The weary traveler pauses on his way, To hear its gentle, never-ending song. It washes all his cares and fears away, And makes his spiri...
