Tampa Robins
The robin laughed in the orange-tree:“Ho, windy North, a fig for thee:While breasts are red and wings are boldAnd green trees wave us globes of gold,Time’s scythe shall reap but bliss for me—Sunlight, song, and the orange-tree.
Burn, golden globes in leafy sky,My orange-planets: crimson IWill shine and shoot among the spheres(Blithe meteor that no mortal fears)And thrid the heavenly orange-treeWith orbits bright of minstrelsy.
If that I hate wild winter’s spite—The gibbet trees, the world in white,The sky but gray wind over a grave—Why should I ache, the season’s slave?I’ll sing from the top of the orange-tree`Gramercy, winter’s tyranny.’
I’ll south with the sun, and keep my clime;My wing is king of the summer-time;My breast to the sun his torch shall hold;And I’ll call down through the green and gold`Time, take thy scythe, reap bliss for me,Bestir thee under the orange-tree.’”
Tampa, Florida, 1877.