The Indian Serenade

 Percy Bysshe Shelley

    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!