O the deep woods

They haste away, all as their fancy leads,

Pleasure, or food, or secret safety prompts;

That nature's great command may be obeyed,

Nor all the sweet sensations they perceive

Indulged in vain. Some to the holly hedge

Nestling, repair, and to the thicket, some;

Some to the rude protection of the thorn

Commit their feeble offspring; the cleft tree

Offers its kind concealment to a few,

Their food its insects, and its moss their nests;

Others apart, far in the grassy dale

Or roughening waste their humble texture weave;

But most in woodland solitudes delight,

In unfrequented glooms or shaggy banks,

Steep, and divided by a babbling brook,

Whose murmurs soothe them all the livelong day,

When by kind duty fixed. Among the roots

Of hazel pendent o'er the plaintive stream,

They frame the first foundation of their domes,

Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid,

And bound with clay together. Now 'tis nought

But restless hurry through the busy air,

Beat by unnumbered wings. The swallow sweeps

The slimy pool, to build his hanging house

Intent; and often from the careless back

Of herds and flocks a thousand tugging bills

Steal hair and wool; and oft when unobserved,

Pluck from the barn a straw; till soft and warm,

Clean and complete, their habitation grows.

As thus the patient dam assiduous sits,

Not to be tempted from her tender task

Or by sharp hunger or by smooth delight,

Though the whole loosened spring around her blows,

Her sympathizing lover takes his stand

High on the opponent bank, and ceaseless sings

The tedious time away; or else supplies

Her place a moment, while she suddenly flits

To pick the scanty meal.

—James Thomson.