The lost nightingale

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 that 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?