The Poet and his Songs

As the birds come in the Spring,
&nbsp We know not from where;
As the stars come at evening
&nbspFrom depths of the air;

As the rain comes from the cloud,
&nbsp And the brook from the ground;
As suddenly, low or loud,
&nbsp Out of silence a sound;

As the grape comes to the vine,
&nbsp The fruit to the tree;
As the wind comes to the pine,
&nbsp And the tide to the sea;

As come the white sails of ships
&nbsp O'er the ocean's verge;
As comes the smile to the lips,
&nbsp The foam to the surge;

So come to the Poet his songs,
&nbsp All hitherward blown
From the misty realm, that belongs
&nbsp To the vast unknown.

His, and not his, are the lays
&nbsp He sings; and their fame
Is his, and not his; and the praise
&nbsp And the pride of a name.

For voices pursue him by day,
&nbsp And haunt him by night,
And he listens, and needs must obey,
&nbsp When the Angel says: "Write!"