The Poet and his Songs

As the birds come in the spring,
We know not from where;
As the stars come at evening
From the 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 grape comes to the vine,
The fruit to the tree;
As the wind comes to the pine,
And the tide to the sea;

As come the white sails of ships
Over the ocean's verge;
As comes the smile to the lips;
The foam to the surge;

So comes to the Poet his songs,
All hither ward blown
From the misty land, that belongs
To the vast unknown.

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

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

                                                   Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)