AMPHORA 
III 
 
 
E still, my soul, and let the sense 
Of Her intuitive influence 
Steal like the whisper of young rains 
Upon thy bleak and barren plains. 
 
By many a mental martyrdom 
Our sterile souls to Mary come. 
Who passeth through the surge and fire 
At last shall win to his desire. 
 
Thy grace for us sufficient still 
To smite the arbiters of ill 
Shall grant the exceeding great reward 
To look by Thee upon the LORD. 
 
Be still, my soul, whate’er assail ! 
Through Mary they shall not prevail ; 
And thou resigned in peace await 
Her peace at Her appointed date. 
Amen. 
 
B 
47