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-trees
       out of the cedars.
Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor
      on the nunnery beaches.

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