From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 8, 1915. By Dolores.
What makes my sky so grey, so grey?
What makes the day so drear?
What makes the robin’s ‘customed notes
Sound plaintive in my ear?
What makes each flower its beauty hide
And stare forth in dismay?
Just this, the postman has gone by—
No word from you today.
What makes the sky so blue, so blue?
What makes the sun so bright?
What makes each bird song thrill me through
With such supreme delight?
What makes each blade of grass, each flower
Thrill me with rapture through?
Just this, the postman came just now
And brought me word from you.
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