PIANOBy D.

H.

LawrenceSOFTLY, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;Taking me back down the vista of years, till I seeA child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling stringsAnd pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastry of songBetrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belongTo the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outsideAnd hymns in the cozy parlor, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamorWith the great black piano apassionato.

The glamorOf childhood days is upon me, my manhood is castDown in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

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