Chicago Weather

To-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.