Piano

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;

Taking me back down 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 mother who smiles as she sings

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song

Betrays me back, till the heart of weeps belong

To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside 

And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tnkling piano our guide

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour 

With the great black piano appassianto. 

The glamour if childish is upon me, my manhood is cast

Down in the flood of remembrance

I weep like a child for the past

D.H  Lawrance

This is a very sweet poem which I took from my English student-book :P. Very very touching and deep.