MY PICTURE.
I have a beautiful picture;
And gorgeous are its dyes,
Wherein the green of the meadows
Blends with the blue of the skies.
A forest stands in the background;
And hills are at the sides;
And a valley lies between them,
Through which a streamlet glides.
There are fields that teem with a harvest
Of rich and ripening grain,
That has caught the glow of the sunlight,
And will not return it again;—
There are broad and spacious pastures,
Where the quiet cattle stray,
And the schoolboys meet to play at ball
On their weekly holiday;—
While here and there a cottage
Peeps out from the leafy lane;
And through the trees you can catch a glimpse
Of the farmer with his wain.
And out in the dark old forest
There is many a stately tree,
That has seen the green leaves come and go
For more than a century.
I have heard of the ancient masters,
I have heard of their marvellous skill,
And how the dull, dead canvas
Would glow with life at their will;—
But, when the sunshine falleth
The rifts of the cloudlets through,
It lends to my picture a glory
That Raphael never knew.
And, when the solemn moonlight
Looks down with its mellow shine,
My picture is bathed in beauty
That seemeth almost divine.
And whenever I gaze at my picture,
Whether sun or stars light the sky,
I feel that my spirit is strengthened,
And my heart is made richer thereby.