Arise From Dreams Of Thee

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

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