The Poet and His Songs

As the birds come in Spring
We know not from where;
As the stars come at evening
From depths of the air;

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

As the grapes come to the vine
The fruit of the tree;
And the wind come to the pine
And the tide to the sea;

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

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

For voices pursue him by day
And haunt him by night,
And he listens and needs must obey,
When the Angel says: “Write.”