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DURING THE STORMOur boat is small, the ocean vast.Waves hurl us up to wrathful skies,Skies scowl us back to raving seas.Let's kneel and pray by the smashed mast.A thin plank holds us from the tomb.Tonight, may be, in a salt bed deep.Lightning to keep our wake, we'll sleepUnder a shroud of cold white foam.Mother of God, sweet Rose of Heaven,To sailors in peril so loving-kind.Quiet the seas and hush the wind.With your finger push our skiff to haven.Deliver us, and we'll give to youA beautiful robe of silver paper,A fine, festooned, four-pounds-weight taper.And a little St. John for your Jesus, too.WESTERLY, No. 1 of 1967 41
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