Nest Eggs

Birds all the summer day
        Flutter and quarrel
Here in the arbour-like
        Tent of the laurel.

Here in the fork
        The brown nest is seated;
For little blue eggs
        The mother keeps heated.

While we stand watching her
        Staring like gabies,
Safe in each egg are the
        Bird's little babies.

Soon the frail eggs they shall
        Chip, and upspringing
Make all the April woods
        Merry with singing.

Younger than we are,
        O children, and frailer,
Soon in the blue air they'll be,
        Singer and sailor.

We, so much older,
        Taller and stronger,
We shall look down on the
        Birdies no longer.

They shall go flying
        With musical speeches
High overhead in the
        Tops of the beeches.

In spite of our wisdom
        And sensible talking,
We on our feet must go
        Plodding and walking.

                      --Robert Lewis Stevenson (1850-94)