sing to you in the night

All the words that I gather 

    And all the words that I write, 

Must spread out their wings untiring, 

    And never rest in their flight, 

Till they come where your sad, sad heart is, 

    And sing to you in the night, 

Beyond where the waters are moving, 

    Storm darkened or starry bright. 

 

[W.B. Yeats {1865-1939} 'Where My Books Go', from Books and Libraries in Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets]