Self-replicating?

What brings DNA to life, what gives it meaning, is the cellular environment in which it is embedded... Genetic theorists with little biochemical understanding have been profoundly misled by the metaphors that Crick provided in describing DNA (and RNA) as 'self-replicating' molecules or replicators, as if they could do it all by themselves. But they aren't and they can't... You may leave DNA or RNA for as long as you like in a test-tube and they will remain inert: they certainly won't make copies of themselves... The functioning cell, as a unit, constrains the properties of it's individual components. The whole has primacy over its parts

Steven Rose, Lifelines: Biology, Freedom, Determinism
As quoted by Mary Midgley

The Romantic Poets...

...wrote against the dangers of the materialism that had became popular with the Age of Reason. This is not because they were anti-science but rather they saw the error in a purely reductionist approach. So Wordsworth writes:

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings:
Our meddling intellect
Misshapes the beauteous form of things:-
We murder to dissect

in The Tables Turned

A functional creation

In its conclusion The Lost World of Genesis One summarises the argument for a functional view of creation:

1) The Hebrew word translated "create" (bara) concerns assigning functions
2) The account begins in v2 with no functions (rather than no material)
3) The first three days pertain to the three major functions in life: time, weather, food
4) Days four to six pertain to functionaries in the cosmos being assigned their roles and spheres
5) The recurring comment that "it is good" refers to functionality (relative to people)
6) The temple aspect is evident in the climax of day seven when God rests - an activity in a temple

To a Butterfly

I'VE watched you now a full half-hour;
Self-poised upon that yellow flower
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!--not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.

________________________
STAY near me--do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
My father's family!
Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey:--with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her, feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.

By William Wordsworth