AMPHORA 
XIII 
 
 
EIL not Thy splendour in the shrine, 
 O Mary, let its glamour grow ! 
Our cold hearts waiting Thee to shine 
Like sunrise on the utmost snow. 
 
Thy favour melt our life in tears, 
Till, gathering force, our love be hurled 
An avalanche upon the years, 
A tempest on the barren world ! 
 
As all the clouds of India break 
In one wild gust upon the sand, 
And in one week of wonder wake 
The whole green gladness of the land ; 
 
So be Thy mercy on us poured, 
Thy beauty fill our aching brains ! 
Although it smite us as a sword 
And fill us with immortal pains ; 
 
Yet in its life our souls revive ; 
By virtue of Thee we endure. 
The end of endings must arrive, 
Madonna !—and the end is sure.  Amen. 
V 
80