C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Tampa Robins

THE ROBIN laughed in the orange-tree:—

“Ho, windy North, a fig for thee;

While breasts are red and wings are bold

And 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 I

Will shine and shoot among the spheres

(Blithe meteor that no mortal fears),

And thrid the heavenly orange-tree

With 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.”