Song of the Young Wren

A tiny wren came to my windowsill

And greeted me with cheer.

Barely feathered against the early chill,

Half his weight was joy.

His wings not strong enough for sustained flight,

A fledgling visitor

He raised his head, a herald of delight

And looked into my eyes

Then scratchily began his life's first notes

Like the scraping of a bow

In a young child's hands that cannot hold for long

The weight of melody.

He sang improving with each new-found trill

The wonder-song of earth,

His music the expression of a Will

Supreme and glorious.