I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sweep of night
When the winds are breathing low
And the stars are shining
Are shining bright
Nightingale's complaint
Dies upon her heart
I must die on thine
O, beloved as thou art
Nightingale's complaint
Dies upon her heart
I must die on thine
O, beloved as thou art
Cheek is cold and white, alas
My heart beats loud and fast
Press it close to thine again
Where it break at last
Where it will break at last
