A birthday sonnet

In which I join Richard Dawkins in celebrating a particular point in history upon which a specific collection of genes enjoyed the first flowering of the capabilities for which they were selected:

Thy hasting days fly on with full career,
But thy autumn no grey or wrinkle shew’th.
Perhaps thy semblance might deceive the truth,
That thou to corpsehood art arrived so near,
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
Than the bitter north winds from Duluth.

Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be in strict measure correction
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads and Natural Selection.
All is matter, and matters not to know
As ever in thy blind Watchmaker’s eye.