Music For The Dying

Poem By Rene Francois Armand Prudhomme

Ye who will help me in my dying pain,
Speak not a word: let all your voices cease.
Let me but hear some soft harmonious strain,
And I shall die at peace.

Music entrances, soothes, and grants relief
From all below by which we are opprest;
I pray you, speak no word unto my grief,
But lull it into rest.

Tired am I of all words, and tired of aught
That may some falsehood from the ear conceal,
Desiring rather sounds which ask no thought,
Which I need only feel:

A melody in whose delicious streams
The soul may sink, and pass without a breath
From fevered fancies into quiet dreams,
From dreaming into death.

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Other poems of RENE FRANCOIS ARMAND PRUDHOMME

At The Water's Edge

To sit and watch the wavelets as they flow
Two - side by side;
To see the gliding clouds that come and
And mark them glide;

Aux Poètes Futurs

POÈTES à venir, qui saurez tant de choses,
Et les direz sans doute en un verbe plus beau,
Portant plus loin que nous un plus large flambeau

Cradles

Along the quay, the great ships,
that ride the swell in silence,
take no notice of the cradles.
that the hands of the women rock.

Never To See Or Hear Her

Never to see or hear her,
never to name her aloud,
but faithfully always to wait for her
and love her.

On The Water

The sound of bank and water is all I hear,
The sad resignation of a weeping spring
Or a rock that hourly sheds a tear,
And the birch leaves' vague quivering.