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Beneath the moon’s soft silver gleam, Where silent waters gently flow, The ancient pines begin to dream And whisper secrets none may know. A traveler paused to hear their sigh, Their needles stirred the mountain air, They sang of times long passed by, Of joy and sorrow, love and care. One tale they told of winter’s frost, Another of the spring’s warm rain, Of all the summers come and lost, Of autumn’s melancholy strain. The wind grew still, the tale was done, The pines fell silent, one by one...