LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR
PERCY BUSSHE SHELLY
I arise from drams 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 spirit I my feet
Has 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 beloved 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.
Done
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