In this Dickinson poem, a speaker suddenly feels alienated from the very summer abundance that once delighted her. Roses ripening, birds bursting into song, bees drowsing in flowers, squirrels hoarding, berries “staring”—all of it presses in on her, not with comfort, but with a kind of anxious pressure. The repeated “What shall I do” makes clear she’s lost and overwhelmed. The reason slips out halfway through: “Thou from Here, so far?” Someone beloved is absent, and nature’s full-throated happiness only sharpens that loss. The creatures around her are free—the robin’s “Goods have Wings”—but she is earthbound, stuck with her “Perennial Things,” those enduring loves and memories that keep returning like the seasons. The mood is wistful and quietly desperate: a bright world feels almost mocking when you can’t share it with the one person who would make it whole.
What shall I do when the Summer troubles -- — Summary
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?