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Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me
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 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.
In the evening light, a woman sings to me softly;
Taking me back through the years, until I see
A child under the piano, feeling the strings' vibrations
And touching the small, steady feet of a smiling mother as she sings.
Despite myself, the subtle power of the song
Pulls me back, making my heart long to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the warm living room, the piano guiding us.
Now it's pointless for the singer to sing loudly
With the big black piano passionately. The charm
Of childhood days overwhelms me, my adulthood is washed away
In the flood of memories, I cry like a child for the past.