172. Lines to an Indian Air. P. B. Shelley. The Golden Treasury

Francis T. Palgrave, ed. (1824–1897). The Golden Treasury. 1875.

P. B. Shelley

CLXXII. Lines to an Indian Air

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,	5
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;	10
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,	15
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.	20
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!