A Lost Chord

Adelaide Anne Procter (1825–1864)

SEATED one day at the organ,

I was weary and ill at ease,

And my fingers wandered idly

Over the noisy keys.

I do not know what I was playing,

Or what I was dreaming then,

But I struck one chord of music,

Like the sound of a great Amen.

It flooded the crimson twilight,

Like the close of an angel’s psalm,

And it lay on my fevered spirit,

With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,

Like love overcoming strife;

It seemed the harmonious echo

From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexed meanings

Into one perfect peace,

And trembled away into silence,

As if it were loath to cease.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,

That one lost chord divine,

That came from the soul of the organ,

And entered into mine.

It may be that Death’s bright angel

Will speak in that chord again;

It may be that only in heaven

I shall hear that grand Amen.