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—
And the Champak‘s odours
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 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！