Come again, my pretty Blackbird,
you sang to me on Sunday afternoon,
so many years ago, here in my garden.
And have you gone to hone your beak
or polish your low voice,
I would not ask you, bird,
let it be told that I would be
supremely happy if you returned,
to sing for me again.
It matters not if you are dressed,
or shaved and manicured.
Even perfume will not be needed.
We have it all, here in your garden,
except for your fine melodies.