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Poem	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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