On Brahms' Double Concerto

This music works its magic like new love:
The spirit wakes, then frees what reason binds.
Motifs can wisp or tack from strings to blood.
They wink, then lace the breeze through pensive minds.
The spirit of this music longs to fly:
Themes play outside, yet dream from underground.
They struggle with each other to arise,
Then share the sun on gliding, blended sound.
The southern muse pours tension in a glass.
The eastern muse whips breathing into wind.
The northern muse sleeps gathered in the past,
And only sounds where synthesis begins.
This music rouses years from heavy sleep,
Then drops a nimble silence once complete.