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.'"     Tampa, Florida, 1877.