house wren

                                                                                       drawing by diana sudyka

There is a bay, all still and lone,
And in the shade one broad grey stone
Where at the evening hour
The sun upon the water weaves
Motions of light among the leaves
Of a low-hanging bower:
And one old sycamore that dips
Into the stream its dark-green tips,
And drinks all day and night:
And opposite, the mountain high
Doth intercept the deep blue sky
And shuts it out from sight.
Last year it was my haunted seat,
And every evening did I meet
A grave and solemn Wren:
He sate and never spoke a word;
A holy and religious bird
He seemed unto me then.
I thought, perchance, that sin and strife
Might in a winged creature's life
Be somehow strangely blent:
So hermit-like he lived apart,
And might be in his little heart
A woodland penitent!
Deceitful thing! into the brook,
Hour after hour, a stedfast look
From off his perch was sent;
And yet I thought his eyes too bright,
Too happy for an anchorite
On lonely penance bent.
My captive heart is altered now;
And, had I but one little bough
Of thy green alder-tree,
I would not live too long alone,
Or languish there for want of one
To share the nest with me! 

frederick william faber,
the wren



the wren to the druids is the bird king, who sings in the heart of winter, a tiny conqueror.
happy wren day, kids.