Robert Louis Stevenson

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.