As the birds come in the Spring, <br />We know not from where; <br />As the stars come at evening <br />From depths of the air; <br /> <br />As the rain comes from the cloud, <br />And the brook from the ground; <br />As suddenly, low or loud, <br />Out of silence a sound; <br /> <br />As the grape comes to the vine, <br />The fruit to the tree; <br />As the wind comes to the pine, <br />And the tide to the sea; <br /> <br />As come the white sails of ships <br />O'er the ocean's verge; <br />As comes the smile to the lips, <br />The foam to the surge; <br /> <br />So come to the Poet his songs, <br />All hitherward blown <br />From the misty realm, that belongs <br />To the vast Unknown. <br /> <br />His, and not his, are the lays <br />He sings; and their fame <br />Is his, and not his; and the praise <br />And the pride of a name. <br /> <br />For voices pursue him by day, <br />And haunt him by night, <br />And he listens, and needs must obey, <br />When the Angel says: 'Write!'<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ultima-thule-the-poet-and-his-songs/
