A blond child plays the piano. And a brace
of solemn, churchlike, flanking candles gleam.
The Past like some blue swirling mist would seem
to seek the Now’s bright halo at a chase.
As from afar, I hear the rippling scale
where Mozart’s pious child’s smile’s borne aloft,
and from hoar-frosted grass stems, rustling soft,
a silver tinkling glides on moonbeam trail.
My child’s so pious gaze is on the score –
and all at once, what’s often sought seems found,
as if my mother played there as before,
and I, trusting child, now heard the sound;
and through the magic of that ancient air
my mother’s young, my child has greying hair.