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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SUMMER. THE SECOND PASTORAL, OR ALEXIS by ALEXANDER POPE TO THE SHAH (1) by AWHAD AD-DIN 'ALI IBN VAHID MUHAMMAD KHAVARANI THE HEAVENS ARE OUR RIDDLE by HERBERT BATES ASPIRATIONS: 2 by MATHILDE BLIND IN PRAISE OF GREEK by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY: 3 by THOMAS CAMPION |