Classic Poem

I KNOW how it would be . . . a rainy moon
Would make an arching loveliness of sky,
And we would note again how strangely soon
The heavens are stilled of storm gone loudly by,—
And how is left, along the storm's late way,
Thin veils of cloud that let the moon look through
In sad, white beauty . . . and then I would say:
“Nothing of this is beautiful as you;
For you are strange with storm that swept your skies
And left you sad as moons in a sad place,
With old, remembered sorrow in your eyes” . . . .
And you would smile, and turn away your face,
But I would say, there where the moon looked through:
“Nothing of this is beautiful as you.”