Lines to an Indian Air
I arise from dreams of thee,
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright;
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me,—who knows how?
To thy chamber-window, sweet!
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream,—
The champak odors fail,
Like sweet thoughts in a dream.
The nightingale’s complaint
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
O beloved as thou art!
O lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail.
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast.
Oh! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.
Percy Bysshe Shelley.