A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the drowsy willows please. It tells of mountains where the eagles soar, And valleys sleeping in the twilight breeze. A traveler paused to hear its murmured tale, Of moonlit peaks and blossoms in the dale. He left his weariness upon the bank, And found the peace his lonely spirit drank. The water flows, though none may understand The ancient language of this humble strand. It sings for all who care to linger near— A liquid poem, ...