Whoever stole you from that bush of bloom

Whoever stole you from that bush of broom,
I think he envied me my happiness,
O little nightingale, for many a time
You lightened my sad heart from its distress,
And flooded my whole soul with melody.
And I would have the other birds all come,
And sing along with me thy threnody.

So brown and dim that little body was,
But none could scorn thy singing. In that throat
That tiny throat, what depth of harmony,
And all night long ringing thy changing note.
What marvel if the cherubim in heaven
Continually do praise him, when to thee
O small and happy, such a grace was given?

Alcuin of York (c. 740 - 804); translated from Latin by Helen Waddell

While we don't have nightingales where I live, I think of the little wrens who sing praise - such a little bird, but such a sound of joy and praise.