Ian Anderson 5 p.m., April 25
A poem by D.H. Lawrence
- 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 the 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.
More from SDReader
- Let thy blessèd Spirit bear a part/and make up our defects with his sweet art — April 12, 2017
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- Three Poems by Thomas Gray — Nov. 25, 2015
- Four poems — July 29, 2015
- Do Not Weep, Maiden, for War Is Kind — Oct. 22, 2014