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!"