THE YOUNG MYSTIC

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!”