is one of the earlier and lesser-known works of 19th century poet Emily Dickinson
. If the lovely and talented Ms. Dickinson, a cherished treasure of tasteful art
and respectable history
, were alive today, she would be very old.
Yonder wither summer sun,
O'er aspen trees grown dark
But whence Autumn cometh
it makes me runneth
To scratch my back on bark.
Whence September dusk grows crisper still
With leaves all crimson conquered,
I yearn to shout and dance about
and stick pickles in my honker.
Reprinted with loving care by Berke Breathed the inventor of Outland.