The storm was beautiful, but she
was full of everything but fear;
That evening feels like yesterday,
Though it was yesteryear —
How fresh the snow when we are fresh,
how wondrous when we’re wondering —
How strange the storm seems now withal
the distant thundering
Is she the girl of yesterday?
The woman of tomorrow?
And when the clouds have cleared, will she
again drink of
moonsorrow?
Glimpses (5)
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