Richard Rogers Bowker (1848–1933)

TURN with me from the city’s clamorous street,

Where throng and push passions and lusts and hate,

And enter, through this age-browned, ivied gate,

For many summers’ birds a sure retreat,

The place of perfect peace. And here, most meet

For meditation, where no idle prate

Of the world’s ways may come, rest thee and wait.

’T is very quiet. Thus doth still Heaven entreat.

With rev’rent feet, his face so worn, so fair,

Walks one who bears the cross, who waits the crown.

Tumult is past. In those calm eyes I see

The image of the Master, Christ, alone.

And from those patient lips I hear one prayer:

“Dear Lord, dear Lord, that I may be like Thee!”