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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=364117" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Piano</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=364117" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;<br>Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see<br>A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings<br>And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=364117" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song<br>Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong<br>To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside<br>And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=364117" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour<br>With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour<br>Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast<br>Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=David+Herbert+Lawrence">David Herbert Lawrence</a></strong></div>

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