9 p.m., Feb. 22
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.