By Percy Bysshe Shelley

I arise from dreams of thee

 In the first sweet sleep or 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,

 Oh, 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 own again,

 Where it will break at last!

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