Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; <br />Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see <br />A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings <br />And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings. <br /> <br />In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song <br />Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong <br />To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside <br />And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide. <br /> <br />So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour <br />With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour <br />Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast <br />Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/piano/
