Strange voices and strange shapes that beat
  To chill the heart and snare the feet.
And through the tempest, beacon-bent
To shelter from the driving damp
  Bespeaking warmth and sweet repose
  Within its sanctuary close,
The welcome of a red shrine-lamp.

So unto Him Who, weary, pressed
  Through the fierce storm of wrath and hate,
  Shone Mary's love, a chapel-gate
Where He might enter Him and rest.

A desert filled with shining sand,
  And still as death the skies that bend
  Where to horizon without end
The rounding distances expand.
A desert white with burning heat
  And parched silence without stir,
  And at its heart a voyager,
Where Death and daggered noonday meet;
And Thirst that grips him by the throat;
  When from the distance wreathing blue,
  No mirage, but a dream come true,
Crowned palm-tree and pale waters float.

To Christ upon the rood, when dim
  Fell on His brow the Shade accurst,
  So Mary slaked His burning thirst
With her white soul held up to Him.