Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — 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!"