500. Lines to an Indian Air

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—

  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 belove´d 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 close to thine again

  Where it will break at last.