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 some 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. George du Maurier (from the French of Madame Necker)