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