By Luis G. Dato
Whyfore must minstrels unattended sing,
And warble songs but little understood?
The shy doves coo their music to the wood
And wild, as soon the answering echoes ring;
Perfumed flowers impetuously will fling
Such exhalations like to harmony,
The morning waves, the blood-red clouds on high,
In our soul’s sympathy are wantoning:
But these the poets offer from their art
Seem whispers wafted from some unknown strain,
They bloom like secret flowers of the heart,
That blossoming fade and fading bloom again,
Perhaps the accents genuises impart
Roused by the god in us and heard in vain.