The Creator's Melody

The drowsy air of the recital hall
Is into motion stirred by echoes of each chord.
Not for an instant does the rhythm stall;
It marches forth with clocks' hands in accord.
The vibrant melody from poised creator springs;
If one note falls from place, all dissipates,
But each holds firm, riding chords' wings.
The spring-pure harmony souls elevates.
Rigid, grandiloquent, inhuman it was named,
By critics who deemed pain the core of arts;
But this inviolate ode to triumph rings unshamed,
Minor turns major, and all suffering departs.
Crescendos lift the conscious up steep slopes,
In prelude to fulfilled, exultant hopes.