I HAVE a little picture;
Perchance you have one too.
Mine is not set in frame of gold;
’Tis first a bit of blue,
And then a background of dark hills—
A river just below,
Along whose broad, green meadow banks
The wreathing elm trees grow.
Upon an overhanging ridge
A little farm-house stands,
Whose owner, like the man of old,
Has builded “on the sands;”
And yet, defying storms and wind,
It stands there all alone,
And brightens up the landscape
With a beauty of its own.
Fairy-like my picture changes
As the seasons come and go.
Now it glows ’neath summer’s kisses;
Now it sleeps ’mid winter’s snow.
I can see the breath of spring-time
In the river’s deeper blue,
And autumn seems to crown it
With her very brightest hue.
Ah. I’d not exchange my picture
For the choicest gem of art;
Yet I must not claim it wholly;
It is only mine in part;
For ’tis one of nature’s sketches—
A waif from that Great Hand
Which hath filled our earth with models
Of the beautiful and grand.