611. The Indian Serenade

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

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--
And the champak's odours [pine]
  Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
  It dies upon her heart,
As I must 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:
O press it to thine own again,
  Where it will break at last!

The Oxford Book of English Verse, HTML edition