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!”