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 tinking 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 man-hood is cast
  Down in the flood of remembrance,
I weep like a child for the past.