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?
