The Silver Bird’s Nest.
A stranded soldier’s epaulet
The waters cast ashore,
A little wingèd rover met,
And eyed it o’er and o’er;
The silver bright so charmed her sight,
On that lone idle vest,
She knew not why she should deny
Herself a silver nest.
The shining wire she pecked and twirled,
Then bore it to her bough,
Where on a flowery twig ’twas curled,
The bird can show you how;
But when enough of that bright stuff
The cunning builder bore,
Her house to make, she would not take,
Nor did she covet, more.
And when the little artisan—
While neither pride nor guilt
Had entered in her pretty plan—
Her resting-place had built,
With here and there a plume to spare,
About her own light form,
Of these, inlaid with skill, she made
A lining soft and warm.
But do you think the tender brood
She fondled there, and fed,
Were prouder when they understood
The sheen about their bed?
Do you suppose they ever rose,
Of higher powers possessed,
Because they knew they peeped and grew
Within a silver nest?