THE POET AND HIS SONGS.

As the birds come in the 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 grape comes to the vine,
The fruit to the tree;

As the wind comes to the pine,
And the tide to the sea;

As comes the white sails of ships
O'er the ocean's verge;
As comes 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.

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!"

19

And said, "O bird, awake and sing." And said, "Not yet! in quiet lie."