Over the hill and by the shore,
Shrouded in mists and trees galore,
Where the moonlight meets the expansive lake,
The splendor and grandeur one cannot shake,
A picturesque landscape only God can make.
Though a forlorn aura, the beauty is true,
Serenity, clarity, and starting anew.
Its wispy, mist-green foliage through the night billow,
Delicate and weary is the weeping willow.
Desperate to grow large and wide,
Under its lengthy curving arms, small creatures may hide;
In its safety, the creatures confide.
The once saddened tree, now lighthearted and pleased,
Its graceful fly