CHICAGO WEATHER

by: Eugene Field (1850-1895)

O-DAY, fair Thisbe, winsome girl!

Strays o'er the meads where daisies blow,

Or, ling'ring where the brooklets purl,

Laves in the cool, refreshing flow.

 

To-morrow, Thisbe, with a host

Of amorous suitors in her train,

Comes like a goddess forth to coast

Or skate upon the frozen main.

 

To-day, sweet posies mark her track,

While birds sing gayly in the trees;

To-morrow morn, her sealskin sack

Defies the piping polar breeze.

 

So Doris is to-day enthused

By Thisbe's soft, responsive sighs,

And on the morrow is confused

By Thisbe's cold, repellent eyes.

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