A gentle stream through mossy stones does glide, Reflecting clouds that in its surface glide. It tells no tales of grandeur or of pride, But simply flows with nothing left to hide. The ancient pines upon its banks do lean, As if to hear the water’s humble theme. Their rustling boughs, a softly whispered dream, That mingles with the bubbling silver stream. No mighty ocean’s roar disturbs this place, Just nature’s calm and unforgotten grace. Here time itself does slow its hurried pace, And find...
