What shall I do when the Summer troubles —

What shall I do when the Summer troubles —
What, when the Rose is ripe —
What when the Eggs fly off in Music
From the Maple Keep?

What shall I do when the Skies a’chirrup
Drop a Tune on me —
When the Bee hangs all Noon in the Buttercup
What will become of me?

Oh, when the Squirrel fills His Pockets
And the Berries stare
How can I bear their jocund Faces
Thou from Here, so far?

‘Twouldn’t afflict a Robin —
All His Goods have Wings —
I — do not fly, so wherefore
My Perennial Things?

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1 Comment

  1. Joe DiMattio says:

    What shall I do when the fleeting joys of life in their annual parade pass and pain me in their joy? Their pains of birth and death simply come and go whereas mine are perennial and get little respite since “Thou from Here, so far.” This poem suggest that Ms Dickinson may have had someone that she pined for. There seems to be no clue as to who; could be living or dead. Any help? Joe DiMattio

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