  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. |
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