Piano by D.H. Lawrence — Read

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.