Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep?

He came and sat by my side but I woke not.
What a cursed sleep it was, O miserable me!
He came when the night was still;
he had his harp in his hands,
and my dreams became resonant with its melodies.

Alas, why are my nights all thus lost?
Ah,
why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep?

with thanks form "Gitanjali"
by Rabindranath Tagore.
Nobel prize for literature, 1913.