A PICTURE.

By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I strolled last eve across the lonely down;

One solitary picture struck my eye:

A distant ploughboy stood against the sky —

How far he seemed above the noisy town!

Upon the bosom of a cloud the sod

Laid its bruised cheek as he moved slowly by,

And, watching him, I asked myself if I

In very truth stood half as near to God.