The Fledgling by Edna St. Vincent Millay

So, art thou feathered, art thou flown, / Thou naked thing? -and canst alone / Upon the unsolid summer air

Sustain thyself, and prosper there?

Shall I no more with anxious note / Advise thee through the happy day, / Thrusting the worm into thy throat, / Bearing thine excrement away?

Alas, I think I see thee yet, / Perched on the windy parapet, / Defer thy flight a moment still / To clean thy wing with careful bill.

And thou art feathered, thou art flown;

And hast a project of thine own.