The Forgotten Chord.

The Forgotten Chord.
330.1

He was only a poor mad musician
Behind an asylum’s strong bars:
At night he would sit by his window
And sing to the beautiful stars:
But how he could play in the daytime:
Such music you don’t often hear-
The weirdest and saddest and sweetest-
It always made heaven seem near.

For many a week he had babbled:
“Forgotten, forgotten, the chord”:
He’d tax his poor brain to recall it.
As slowly he’d pace the long ward.
“I’ll soon have it now,” he would whisper;
I’ve played it-you know what I mean.”
And then he would touch the piano
And listen attentively keen.

The keys he would kiss night and morning.
“I love you, my dears, he would sav
“You hold the sweet chord I’ve forgotten.
And some time, perhaps, while I play
You’ll Rive It back into my keeping:
I once had it right at my touch;
To find it shall be my great life work.
And then. I don’t care very much,

His face became whiter and thinner
As still he kept up his strange quest:
The misery of that poor madman
We noticed, but never half guessed.
His eyes held a terrible longing.
And somehow they haunted us all;
We only could hope he would find it-
The chord he so wished to recall.

His hands became almost transparent.
And plainly showed ev every blue vein:
His playing, although we so loved it,
At last gave us wonderful pain.
Tis vagary on only,” the doctors
Together agreed as one man;
“We’d better remove the riano,
We think we can cure by our plan.”

And thus he was left without comfort.
Though keeping his well tutored ear.
Oh, how he would listen and listen
For the chord he’d forgotten, to hear:
When others would play he was raving
And heating the walls of his room.
His mind was without gleam of reason.
Filled up with hot anger and gloom.

One day It was sald he was dying:
He’d asked for his nurse, that was I.
I hurried at once to his bedside
And felt about ready to ery.
I thought of that chord he’d forgotten
And could not remember again:
I thought of him unloved, unloving.
And raving like dying madmen.

His arms were outstretched in a welcome.
His black eyes upturned to my own;
“I hear it. I hear it,” he faltered
In such a strange, jubilant tone- The chord I’d forgotten just listen.
They’re playing it far up above:
I hear it at last. I am happy!
Yes, that is the chord which I love,”

And then he fell back on the pillow,
A smile on his face like a prayer-
A beautiful prayer of thanksgiving
For hearing such melody rare.
Quite dead he was, too, in a moment,
His hands lying limp on his breast:
He may have heard heavenly music.
He surely had found peace and rest.