A ripple of notes in a wave of sound,
A sudden charge to a higher ground;
A pause at the top, an almost stop,
Then a leap, then a flutter, a swoop and a soar—
Rachmaninoff’s Preludes are here once more!
A plunge to the depths, a burst to the light;
The thirst of the Prelude an un-drunk height.
Now steady the beat of its feet on the sand,
Now gladly repeating the will of command.
Now solemn, now thoughtful, it always goes on
To the point of its purpose—the heart of the dawn.
The melody’s turning, it’s spurning the night,
On the wings of its rapture it soars with new might.
The sun is arisen, the sky has new tone:
Rachmaninoff’s Preludes are flying alone!