A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the rustling reeds believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles soar, And distant lands beyond the rocky shore. An old pine tree has listened for a year, Its branches bending closer, sharp and clear. It remembers tales of winters long since passed, Of fragile blooms that in the spring were cast. The moon now rises, painting all in white, The brook keeps whispering through the quiet night. It speaks not ...

A gentle stream through mossy stones does weave, Its silver song the rustling reeds believe. It tells of mountains where the eagles soar, And distant lands beyond the rocky shore. An old pine tree has listened for a year, Its branches bending closer, sharp and clear. It remembers tales of winters long since passed, Of fragile blooms that in the spring were cast. The moon now rises, painting all in white, The brook keeps whispering through the quiet night. It speaks not ...