I know not what forebodes it, Why sorrow fills my breast; A tale from ages faded Will grant my heart no rest. O Lore-Ley, O wond’rous song, Upon the Rhine’s dark wave; With magic old, with beauty strong, The souls of men enslave. The air is cool, the dusk is nigh, And calm flows on the Rhine; Upon the mount the summit high Still glows with evening shine. The fairest maiden sitteth Above in mystical grace; Her golden jewels glitter, She combs her golden tress. She combs with golden comb so fair, And sings a song meanwhile; The melody, bewitched and rare, Doth all who hear beguile. It grips with woe the boatman Within his fragile bark; He sees not reefs before him— He gazes up, entranced and stark. O Lore-Ley, O wond’rous song, Upon the Rhine’s dark wave; With magic old, with beauty strong, The souls of men enslave. I deem the waves devour Both boat and boatman brave; Her song in twilight’s hour Hath wrought their watery grave. O Lore-Ley, thy ancient song, Thine eyes of starlit blue— All hearts to thee, forever long, Yet perish in thy view.
