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Poem	Somewhere beneath that piano's superb sleek black Must hide my mother's piano, little and brown with the back That stood close to the wall, and the front's faded silk, both torn And the keys with little hollows, that my mother's fingers had worn. Softly, in the shadows, a woman is singing to me Quietly, through the years I have crept back to see A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the shaking strings Pressing the little poised feet of the mother who smiles as she sings The full throated woman has chosen a winning, living song And surely the heart that is in me must belong To the old Sunday evenings, when darkness wandered outside And hymns gleamed on our warm lips, as we watched mother's fingers glide Or this is my sister at home in the old front room Singing love's first surprised gladness, alone in the gloom. She will start when she sees me, and blushing, spread out her hands To cover my mouth's raillery, till I'm bound in her shame's heart-spun bands A woman is singing me a wild Hungarian air And her arms, and her bosom and the whole of her soul is bare And the great black piano is clamouring as my mother's never could clamour And the tunes of the past are devoured of this music's ravaging glamour.
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