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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
My loving wife is always saddened when she finds a birds nest on the ground. She always places it back into the tree in hopes it will serve another bird. Thanks for the fond provisions of though this one brought.