Lines to an Indian Air
Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1820

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
     Hath led me--who knows how?
     To thy chamber-window, Sweet!

     The wandering airs they faint
     On the dark, the silent stream--
     The champak odours fail
     Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
     The nightingale's complaint,
     It dies upon her heart,
     As I must on thine,
     Oh, belovéd as thou art!

     Oh 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;
     O! press it to thine own again
     Where it will break at last.