Sonnet [Whyfore must minstrels unattended sing]

Whyfore must minstrels unattended sing
And utter sounds by no one understood?
The shy doves coo their music to the wood
And wild—as soon responsive echoes sing:
Perfuméd flowers impetuously will fling
Such exhalations like to harmony;
The moaning waves, the blood-red clouds on high,
In our soul’s sympathy are wantoning;
But these the poets offer from their art,
Are whispers wafted from some alien strain.
Perhaps they rise as secrets of the heart,
That, surging, sink, and, sinking, surge again,
Perhaps the accents geniuses impart,
Aroused by godly impulse, heard in vain.