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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, 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 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 close to thine again Where it will break at last!
