Poem by Wallace Stevens

Indian River

The trade-wind jingles the rings in the nets around 
              the racks by the docks on Indian River.
It is the same jingle of the water among roots under 
              the banks of the palmettoes,
It is the same jingle of the red-bird breasting 
              the orange-treesout of the cedars.
Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, 
              nor on the nunnery beaches.

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