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English Poetry II: From Collins to Fitzgerald.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

500. 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 belovéd 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.