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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.'" Unsatisfied? Search for more:Other Cool Sites:Hot Arts & Stage NewsLyrics Catalogue Sound Tracks Guide Guide to Serials and Shows English Subtitles For DivX Movies Hundreds of Cooking Recipes Over 5000 Cocktails Recipes Cool Online Encyclopedia Cellulars Descriptions and Reviews Algorithms Dictionary Funny Jokes and Anecdotes. Usenet Newsgroups Reader |