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.