Wednesday, February 20, 2019

THE INDIAN SERENADE - by Percy Bysshe Shelley


by   Percy Bysshe Shelley 

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 odors fail
 Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
 The nightingale's complaint, 
 It dies upon her heart, 
 As I must die on thine, 
 Oh, beloved 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 close to thine again, 
 Where it will break at last !