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 Come 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!"