Here in the ivy,
cupped, a light,
an aery, faery thing;
no artist could make better,
no mother could do more;
so much intelligence,
so much love;
every threaded fibre
a flight of love.
Is it fulfilled, or waiting,
or plundered of its life?
too precious to destroy,
this cradle of intelligence.
Michael Shepherd
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bird-s-nest/
