LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. by P.B. SHELLEY.

 
 
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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 on thine,
Oh, belovéd 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;
O! press it to thine own again
Where it will break at last.
P.B. SHELLEY., THE GOLDEN TREASURY Of the best Songs and Lyrical Pieces In the English Language Selected by Francis Turner Palgrave
 
 
 
 

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