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 on thine
Oh, belovèd 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 to thine own again
Where it will break at last