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.

More Poems by Wallace Stevens