from _THE_PRELUDE_
            William Wordsworth
                c. 1805
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  Behold the Parent Hen amid her Brood,
Though fledged and feather'd, and well pleased to part
And straggle from her presence, still a Brood,
And she herself from the maternal bond
Still undischarged; yet doth she little more
Than move with them in tenderness and love,
A centre of the circle which they make;
And, now and then, alike from need of theirs
And call of her own natural appetites,
She scratches, ransacks up the earth for food
Which they partake at pleasure. Early died
My honour'd Mother . . . .  (5.246-257 [1805 ed.])


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