Oh wren, you sit below my bedroom window and sing.
You wake me with a lilting song that befits a king.
You charge me naught for the serenade you freely give.
You feed on scraps and insects at the place where I live.
I hear your warbling voice raise in cheerful song each morn.
You build your tiny nest protected by branch and thorn.
Daily, your thrilling song pours across my window sill.
You sing in sweet serenade breaking the morning’s still.
Oh wren, such calliope wrapped in body small.
The quiet of daybreak is opened with your call.
Your unbound songs rise on your wings, outspread in a fan.
Oh wren, because of you, I am a fortunate man.