Piano by D.H. Lawrence

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down to 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 appassinato. 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.



From My Diary, July 1914 by Wilfred Owen

Leaves
 Murmuring by myriads in the shimmering trees.
Lives
 Wakening with wonder in the Pyrenees.
Birds
 Cheerily chirping in the early day.
Bards
 Singing of summer, scything through the hay.
Bees
 Shaking the heavy dews from bloom and frond.
Boys
 Bursting the surface of the ebony pond.
Flashes
 Of swimmers carving through the sparkling cold.
Fleshes
 Gleaming with wetness to the morning gold.
A mead
 Bordered about with warbling waterbrooks.
A maid
 Laughing the love-laugh with me; proud of looks.
The heat
 Throbbing between the upland and the peak.
Her heart
 Quivering with passion to my pressed cheek.
Braiding
 Of floating flames across the mountain brow.
Brooding
 Of stillness; and a sighing of the bough.
Stirs
 Of leaflets in the gloom; soft petal-showers;
Stars
 Expanding with the starr'd nocturnal flowers.



The Sorrow of Love by William Butler Yeats

The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves,  
The brilliant moon and all the milky sky,  
And all that famous harmony of leaves,  
Had blotted out man's image and his cry.

A girl arose that had red mournful lips
And seemed the greatness of the world in tears,  
Doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships  
And proud as Priam murdered with his peers;

Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves,  
A climbing moon upon an empty sky,  
And all that lamentation of the leaves,  
Could but compose man's image and his cry.