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 chamber¹ window， Sweet！

    The wandering airs they faint

    On the dark， the silent stream—

    And the Champak‘s odours²

    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 eyelids³ pale.

    My cheek is cold and white， alas⁴！

    My heart beats loud and fast：

    O press it to thine own again，

    Where it will break at last！

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