Ultima Thule: 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 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!'
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