To Miss Betty Pringle. Perhaps you don’t know
That it made little difference what came to her sight,
There never was anything really quite right!
The grass was too green, and the sky was too gray,
And the wind never blew in a suitable way,—
If it came from the east it was brewing a storm,
If it blew from the south ’twas oppressively warm!
If the sun shone at all, it was always too bright,
And she wished it would hurry and set for the night.
If a friend came to see her with something new on,