A Picture

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.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Other poems of WHEELER WILCOX (563)

Comments (1)

Striking portrayal of toil as inspiration.