Emily Dickinson — What shall I do when the Summer troubles 956

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?