I’d been traveling,
I’d been traveling,
through woods and over fields
in the neighbourhood of Albany,
where true things lay concealed.

The blackbird that came with me,
in so strange a way pursued me
had proved the most diverting

If I stopped a while to think
or to take a little drink,
he’d return to me and urge me
to continue.

At other times he’d linger
this purest of all singers,
and offer me some melody
or other;

each note floating free
with such delicacy of tone
that it pierced my heart
and elevated me,

but as night began to fall
I saw the bird no more
he that picked the secret
in my soul.

In Albany one springtime
long ago.

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