In music so in love...

In music, so in love: when the flutist, moved
By moving through a rapid line, gives force
To sound, as if the notes would shriek
Upon the heights and burn the sky, then plunge
With force into a sweeping churn
Of cataracts bedazzled in an eclipsed sun,
His breath becomes a wheeze, his music's
Silver soul goes stale and stirs an acrid wind
That wails at wilting ears; but when --
Just as the placid lake that cooks beneath a serene
Sun, exhaling breezes, weaves gentle
Tendrils in an ordered dance to tickle
Lopping moss -- he breathes into his wand
And coaxes from it changing airs, then
His audience delights, the second slips
Into the song and glides on
Through the tender night.