I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sweep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise form dreams of thee,
And the spirit in my feet hath led me.
Who knows how,
Who knows how.
To thy chamber window sweet,
I arise from dreams of thee.
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
O, beloved as thou art!
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
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