The Indian Serenade

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,
 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!

by Percy Bysshe Shelley