Julia Caroline (Ripley) Dorr (1825–1913)

WHAT dost thou bring to me, O fair To-day,

That comes o’er the mountains with swift feet?

All the young birds make haste thy steps to greet;

And all the dewy roses of the May

Turn red and white with joy. The breezes play

On their soft harps a welcome low and sweet;

All nature hails thee, glad thy face to meet,

And owns thy presence in a brighter ray.

But my poor soul distrusts thee! One as fair

As thou art, O To-day, drew near to me,

Serene and smiling, yet she bade me wear

The sudden sackcloth of a great despair!

O, pitiless! that through the wandering air

Sent no kind warning of the ill to be!