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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 cosy parlour
the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
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.