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?