Storm clouds move in and darken all the house,
The morning paper on the kitchen table dim,
Where I’ve been reading some reporter’s grouse
At things already bad, now growing grim.
Most of the prodigies agree with him.
I rise to light a lamp, and hear the thunder,
And watch the first drops thudding on the lawn.
Your mother joins me. Here we stand, in wonder,
Between the hour that marks your life’s first dawn
And that one, still obscure, we’re counting on.
—James Matthew Wilson
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