Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent waters gently stream, A lonely pine whispers ancient tales Of winter winds and summer gales. Its needles trace upon the snow Secrets that only mountains know— Of travelers resting in its shade, Of promises beneath stars made. One night a scholar, lost and tired, By its great trunk was thus inspired: He carved a poem in the bark so deep, A vow that time itself would keep. Now when the northern breezes sigh, You hear the verse drift softly by— ...
