I'm re-posting this from the earlier thread.
Here's a poem about empty nests:

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 are feathered, thou art flown;
And hast a project of thine own.