David Herbert Lawrence was an English writer, whose prolific output included novels, short stories, poem, play, essays, travel books and translations.
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 smiled 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 brust into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of children days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
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