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
company.
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.
Another Way of Saying 