A poem by David Herbert Lawrence.
From an old book that I found in Jamie's extensive and eclectic library... He is a complete, and proud book worm, so it will never be surprising what I find in there... Anything from Tolkien, to Biggles, to biographies about cricketers; to poetry. I enjoy the poetry.
This poem I liked because I can see what the writer sees. And I probably can play it! I hope my children have memories of me playing the piano and singing them songs...
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 bloom 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 evening 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 upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for