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 glamor 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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