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 odours 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!
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; Oh press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last!