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