Adelaide Anne Procter
She was the eldest daughter of the poet Bryan Waller Procter ("Barry Cornwall") and Anne Benson Skepper. As a child Adelaide showed precocious intelligence. She attained considerable proficiency in French, German, and Italian, as well as in music and drawing, and she was a great reader. Brought up in surroundings favourable to the development of literary leanings, she began to write verses at an early age, and at eighteen contributed to the "Book of Beauty".
In 1851, she and two of her sisters became Catholics without, apparently, any disturbance of the harmonious relations of the domestic circle. In 1853, under the pseudonym of "Mary Berwick", she ... more »
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Adelaide Anne Procter Poems
A Lost Chord
SEATED one day at the Organ, I was weary and ill at ease, And my fingers wandered idly Over the noisy keys.
A Woman’s Question
BEFORE I trust my fate to thee, Or place my hand in thine, Before I let thy future give Color and form to mine,
You have taken back the promise That you spoke so long ago; Taken back the heart you gave me- I must even let it go.
He was the first always: Fortune Shone bright in his face. I fought for years; with no effort He conquered the place:
LOUD roared the tempest, Fast fell the sleet; A little Child Angel Passed down the street,
Per Pacem Ad Lucem
I DO not ask, O Lord, that life may be A pleasant road; I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me Aught of its load;
WHERE are the swallows fled? Frozen and dead, Perchance, upon some bleak and stormy shore. O doubting heart!
My God, I Thank Thee who Hast Made
My God, I thank Thee who hast made The earth so bright; So full of splendour and of joy, Beauty and light;
One by One the Sands are Flowing
One by one the sands are flowing, One by one the moments fall: Some are coming, some are going; Do not strive to grasp them all.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
A Lost Chord
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 ...