The busy birds, with nice selection, cull
Soft thistle-down, gray moss, and scatter’d wool;
Far from each prying eye the nest prepare,
Form’d of warm moss, and lined with softest hair.
Week after week, regardless of her food,
Th’ incumbent linnet warms her future brood;
Each spotted egg with ivory bill she turns,
Day after day with fond impatience burns;
Hears the young prisoner chirping in his cell,
And breaks in hemispheres the fragile shell.
I found this poem to be heavily centered towards the thought process of a naturalist, but of one who took careful note of the complex relations held between more developed vertebrates and their young. I also happened to think of this poem as a rather tranquil and relaxing piece as it had a real romantic sense of light-heartedness and warmth for something based off the cold fact of natural selection.