Classic Poem

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!”