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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=425644" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Not at a Loss Chord - after Adelaide Anne Procter – A Lost Chord</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not at a Loss Chord </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Playing one day with my organ, <br>I was blissful – not ill at ease -<br>while five fingers wandered wildly <br>web-cams recording each wheeze.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I know the spot vibrating, <br>less what I was dreaming then, <br>but I strummed with both will and spirit<br>and an “Oh My God! Amen! ”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Adrenaline flowed not vainly<br>from heart to crimson palm, <br>as it coursed both veins and spirit<br>with little akin to calm.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It quieted pain and sorrow, <br>like love overcoming strife; <br>it seem[en]ed orgasmic echo<br>to tune discordant life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It linked all perplexèd meanings<br>into one perfect peace, <br>and trembled away into silence<br>although I was loth to cease.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have sought, and I seek not vainly, <br>that one G spot divine, <br>which linked my soul to the organ<br>so manifestly mine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">La petite morte delightful <br>strikes shivering molten core, <br>as this little verse insightful<br>calls for en corps encore! </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>It may be that Death's bright angel<br>will speak in that chord again, <br>for it’s surely in seventh Heaven<br>one sings “Oh My God! Amen! ”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER – A Lost Chord<br>8 April 2007</div><div style="margin:10px 0">ROBIN Jonathan 1947_2006 robi3_1338_proc1_0001 PXY_MXX Not at a Loss Chord_Playing one day with my organ <br> A Lost Chord</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Seated one day at the Organ, <br> I was weary and ill at ease, <br>And my fingers wandered idly<br> Over the noisy keys.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I do not know what I was playing, <br> Or what I was dreaming then; <br>But I struck one chord of music, <br> Like the sound of a great Amen.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It flooded the crimson twilight, <br> Like the close of an Angel's Psalm, <br>And it lay on my fevered spirit<br> With a touch of infinite calm.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It quieted pain and sorrow, <br> Like love overcoming strife; <br>It seemed the harmonious echo<br> From our discordant life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It linked all perplexéd meanings<br> Into one perfect peace, <br>And trembled away into silence<br> As if it were loth to cease.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have sought, but I seek it vainly, <br> That one lost chord divine, <br>Which came from the soul of the Organ, <br> And entered into mine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It may be that Death's bright angel<br> Will speak in that chord again, <br>It may be that only in Heaven<br> I shall hear that grand Amen.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Adelaide Anne PROCTER</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">PROCTER Adelaide Anne 1825_1864 proc1_0001_proc1_0000 PXX_MXX A Lost Chord_Seated on day at the organ<br> <br>The Lost Chord</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Seated one morn at my organ<br>I was restless and ill-at-ease, <br>For I had supped too freely<br>On Kummel and toasted cheese.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I know not what I was playing, <br>And I wasn’t playing well, <br>But I struck one chord of music<br>That lifted the lid off hell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It howled like a mad gorilla, <br>It yelped like a blue baboon<br>As it munches the wild Manilla<br>In the Mountains of the Moon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It tied up the simplest meansings<br>In horrible knots and twists; <br>It shrouded the dazzling sunlight<br>In the murk of miasmic mists.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was barbarous, botulistic, <br>It linked the Chimaera’s boom<br>With a dismal, Bedlamistic<br>And super-decanal gloom.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It shattered my topmost skylight, <br>It splintered my study door, <br>And it died away in the twilight<br>With a galliambic snore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, I strive with passionate longing<br>That wondrous chord to recall, <br>And compose a rhapsody on it<br>For the Queen’s or the Albert Hall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have sought – but I seek it vainly –<br>That chord so cruel and keen<br>Which entered the soul of the organ<br>From the soul of Scriabin.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It may be that Death’s euphonium<br>That chord some day will sound; <br>But only in Pandemonium<br>Will its full effects be found.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Charles Larcom GRAVES Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER – A Lost Chord</div><div style="margin:10px 0">GRAVES Charles Larcom 1856_1944 grav1_0004_grav1_0000 PXX_JXX The Lost Chord_Seated one morn at my organ</div><div style="margin:10px 0">GRAVES Charles Larcom 1856_1944 grav1_0004_proc1_0001 PXX_JXX The Lost Chord_Seated one morn at my organ<br> <br>The Lost Word</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Seated one day at the typewriter, <br>I was weary of a's and e's, <br>And my fingers wandered wildly, <br>Over the consonant keys.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I know not what I was writing, <br>With that thing so like a pen; <br>But I struck one word astounding - <br>Unknown to the speech of men.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It flooded the sense of my verses, <br>Like the break of a tinker's dam, <br>And I felt as one feels when the printer<br>Of your 'infinite calm' makes clam.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It mixed up s's and x's<br>Like an alphabet coming to strife.<br>It seemed the discordant echo<br>Of a row between husband and wife.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It brought a perplexed meaning<br>Into my perfect piece, <br>And set the machinery creaking<br>As though it were scant of grease.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have tried, but I try it vainly, <br>The one last word to divine<br>Which came from the keys of my typewriter<br>And so would pass as mine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It may be some other typewriter<br>Will produce that word again, <br>It may be, but only for others - <br>‘I ‘ shall write henceforth with a pen.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">John PAUL Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER 1825_1864 A Lost Chord </div><div style="margin:10px 0">PAUL John paul3_0001_paul3_0001 PWX_IXX The Lost Word_Seated one day at the typewriter</div><div style="margin:10px 0">PAUL John paul3_0001_proc1_0001 PWX_IXX The Lost Word_Seated one day at the typewriter </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A Lost Sister</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Whisper your Mother’s Name</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I was seated one day in a gilded café<br>In a window that looked on the street<br>A face caught my eye in a crowd passing by<br>And I hastedly sprang to my feet</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was my sister's sad face, I had left home to trace<br>Through her pride she had left us one day<br>And it brought back to me, as plain as could be<br>My mother as I heard her say</div><div style="margin:10px 0">CHORUS 'If you should see your sister<br>do not reproach or blame<br>Tell her how we've missed her<br>I love her just the same<br>Say my darling the words that you've brought her<br>whether in pride or shame<br>Say that she's still my daughter<br>Whisper your mother's name'<br>(Yodel) EEE-yew-dee-oh-lee-oh-lady-ee-hee<br>yodeledee-yo deledee-hee</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There were tears on her face as she passed by the place<br>and I hastedly sprang to her side<br>As we walked along I said, 'Nell, we were wrong<br>We are sorry we wounded your pride.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Your sweetheart is true and still waiting for you<br>We are willing now you should wed<br>If you'll only come back, you can marry your Jack<br>and please your dear mother who says'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>CHORUS</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Jimmie RODGERS Parody PROCTER Adelaide Anne 1825_1864 A Lost Chord</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>RODGERS Jimmie rodg1_0001_rodg1_0000 PXX_JXX A Lost Sister_Seated one day in a gilded café</div><div style="margin:10px 0">RODGERS Jimmie rodg1_0001_proc1_0001 PXX_JXX A Lost Sister_Seated one day in a gilded café<br> <br>The Lost Chord</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Seated one day at the organ<br>I jumped as if I’d been shot, <br>For the Dean was upon me, snarling<br>‘Stainer – and make it hot.’</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All week I swung Stainer and Barnby, <br>Bach, Gounod, and Bunnett in A; <br>I said, ‘Gosh, the old bus is a wonder! ”<br>The Dean, with a nod, said “Okay”.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">D.B. Wyndham LEWIS<br>Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER 1825_1864 A Lost Chord</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">LEWIS D.B. Wyndham 1894_1969 lewi1_0002_lewi1_0000 PXX_JXX The Lost Chord_Seated one day at the organ</div><div style="margin:10px 0">LEWIS D.B. Wyndham 1894_1969 lewi1_0002_proc1_0001 PXX_JXX The Lost Chord_Seated one day at the organ<br> <br>The Lost Discord</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Standing one day at his organ, <br>The grinder seemed quite at ease, <br>With his monkey idly chasing<br>The far too-industrious fleas.<br>I know not what he was playing<br>(for I was composing then) , <br>But I heard someone curse that organ, <br>And I murmured a great ‘Amen! ’</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That discord, it filled the silence<br>With a sound as of tom-cats lorn; <br>It racked my brain like a nightmare, <br>It was worse than an oil-cloth torn.<br>It was like inharmonious yelling; <br>It made all the street-dogs whine, <br>It seems that the soul of that organ<br>Had spitefully gone for mine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So I made for that organ-grinder<br>And swore that I’d break each limb; <br>And his monkey his fleased ceased chasing, <br>When he saw I meant chasing him.<br>It may be in some other quarter<br>He’s playing that air – and then, <br>If someone is smashing his organ, <br>I’ll fervently say, “Amen! ”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Author Unknown ‘Judy’ 26 May 1886<br>Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER 1825_1864 A Lost Chord</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">pseud Judy PSju1_0004_PUNau_0000 PWX_JXX The Last Discord_Standing one day at his organ</div><div style="margin:10px 0">pseud Judy PSju1_0004_proc1_0001 PWX_JXX The Last Discord_Standing one day at his organ<br> <br>The Lost Drink</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Seated one day at a café, <br>I was thirsty and hot as the sphinx, <br>And my tongue went babbling idly<br>Over the names of drinks.<br>I knew not what I was saying, <br>Nor what I had uttered then: <br>But the garçon brought me a mixture<br>Like a gift of the gods to men.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Its colour a blushing scarlet<br>Like the tip of a toper’s nose, <br>And it tickled my fever’d palate<br>With its flow and after-glows.<br>It trickled down my gullet<br>Like oil down a red-hot pipe; <br>It seemed the harmonious echo<br>From some supernal swipe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It linked vin rouge and choice ligueur<br>Into one perfect drop, <br>And guggled away down my gullet<br>As if it were loth to stop.<br>I have sought – but I seek it vainly –<br>That one lost drink divine, <br>Which was mixed by that garçon du café<br>With curaçoa and red wine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It may be that some chance garçon<br>May bring me that drink again; <br>It may be that some day in Paris<br>I may utter its name. But then<br>I never could find that café, <br>And lost to mortal ken<br>Is that supernal boisson<br>Like a gift of the gods to men! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Author Unknown ‘Judy’ 27 October 1886<br>Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER – A Lost Chord</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>pseud Judy PSju1_0003_PUNau_0000 PXX_JXX The Lost Drink_Seated one day at a café</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> <br>The Lost Organ</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Seated one day at the organ<br>With an audience ill-at-ease, <br>I pulled the stop marked “Bird-song, ”<br>And the one marked “Autumn Breeze.”<br>I switched on the rosy lighting, <br>And when all was ready to start, <br>I added a touch of thunder –<br>And the organ fell apart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">John Bingham MORTON 1893_1979 - Dr Strabismus 1949<br> Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER – A Lost Chord</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>MORTON J B 1893_1979 mort1_0005_mort1_0000 PWX_MXX The Lost Organ_Seated one day at the organ</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> <br>The Lost Voice</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Seated at Church in the winter<br>I was frozen in every limb, <br>And the village choir shrieked wildly<br>Over a noisy hymn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I do not know what they were singing, <br>But while I was watching them<br>Our Curate began his sermon<br>With the sound of a slight “Ahem! ”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It frightened the female portion<br>Like the storm which succeeds a calm, <br>Both maidens and matrons heard it<br>With a touch of inane alarm.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It told them of pain and sorrow, <br>Cold, cough, and neuralgic strife, <br>Bronchitis and influenza<br>All aimed at our Curate’s life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It linked all perplex’d diseases<br>Into one precious frame; <br>They trembled with rage if a sceptic<br>Attempted to ask its name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They have wrapped him in mustard plasters, <br>Stuffed him with food and wine, <br>They have fondled, caressed, and nursed him<br>With sympathy divine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It may be that other Curates<br>Will preach in that church to them, <br>Will there be every time, Good Heavens! <br>Such fuss for a slight – Ahem! ? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Author Unknown pseud A.H.S. <br>Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER – A Lost Chord</div><div style="margin:10px 0">pseud A.H.S. PSah1_0001_proc1_0001 PWX_JXX The Last Voice_Seated at Church in the winter</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Jonathan+Robin">Jonathan Robin</a><div class=q>
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Playing one day with my organ, 
I was blissful – not ill at ease -
while five fingers wandered wildly 
web-cams recording each wheeze.

I know the spot vibrating, 
less what I was dreaming then, 
but I strummed with both wi..."></div>
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