From the German of Heine

I know not what it presages, This sadness of my heart;— A tale of bygone ages From my mind will not depart.

The air is cool and is darkling, And softly flows the Rhine; The crest of the mountain is sparkling In the evening’s calm sunshine.

Yonder at ease reclining Sits a maiden wondrous fair, Her golden jewels shining, As she combs her golden hair.

With a golden comb she is combing, And she sings a sad, sweet song, That through the quiet gloaming, So strangely floats along!

The doomed in his shallop speeding, Is seized with a pang of woe;— He drifts on the rocks, naught heeding, Save the mountain crest aglow.

Alas! ’neath the waves in their madness, The sailor and boat are gone;— And this, with her song of sadness, The Lorelei has done.