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
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
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The
Of childish 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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