WE sat together close and warm, My little tired boy and I— Watching across the evening sky The coming of the storm. No rumblings rose, no thunders crashed, The west-wind scarcely sang aloud; But from a huge and solid cloud The summer lightnings flashed. And then he whispered "Father, watch; I think God's going to light His moon—" "And when, my boy"..."Oh, very soon— I saw Him strike a match!" |