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.
1 comment:
I just realized that when I wrote, "In honor of Lawrence's birthday," I had forgotten that September 11th is the anniversary of a significant and terrible day in U.S. History.
Yet it is partly because of the horrifying events of that day that I became a reader of poetry. At that scary time, our country was united, and our Allies mourned with us.
Music was played to honor the victims and comfort the survivors. Classical music, in particular.
For my part, it was as if my soul craved nourishment from anything good and beautiful. I found myself at the bookstore, and in an uncharacteristic spree, I spent money on two books: "Stars and Planets," and Norton's "Anthology of Poetry."
Since then, family life has prevented me from going outside to look at the night sky, but my daily dose of "Writer's Almanac" still serves to lift my spirits.
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