George du Maurier (1834–1896)

(After Sully Prudhomme)

KINDLY watcher by my bed, lift no voice in prayer,

Waste not any words on me when the hour is nigh,

Let a stream of melody but flow from some sweet player,

And meekly will I lay my head and fold my hands to die.

Sick am I of idle words, past all reconciling,

Words that weary and perplex and pander and conceal,

Wake the sounds that cannot lie, for all their sweet beguiling;

The language one need fathom not, but only hear and feel.

Let them roll once more to me, and ripple in my hearing,

Like waves upon a lonely beach where no craft anchoreth:

That I may steep my soul therein, and craving naught, nor fearing,

Drift on through slumber to a dream, and through a dream to death.