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
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale’s complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As
I must on thine,
O belovèd 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!
Read more Shelley on Bibliomania