A stranger, from the country’s calm retreat

And heavenly boon of sweet tranquillity,

I tread with faltering steps the dusty street,

And seek in vain the God I long to see.

These traffickers who hold the world in fee —

They hurry past with such determined feet!

I seem to read in every face I meet,

“Am I not strong? What is thy God to me?”

He was so sweet to all the fields, so great

Among the hills, so fair in every glen,

So good to countless hungering eyes that wait

Upon His hand; I felt the Presence then —

Too distant now to cheer me desolate

In this grim weary wilderness of men.