I know not whence it rises,
This thought so full of woe:
But a tale of the times departed
Haunts me--and will not go.
The air is cool, and it darkens,
And calmly flows the Rhine;
The mountain peaks are sparkling
In the sunny evening-shine.
And yonder sits a maiden,
The fairest of the fair;
With gold is her garment glittering,
And she combs her golden hair.
With a golden comb she combs it,
And a wild song singeth she,
That melts the heart with a wondrous
And powerful melody.
The boatman feels his bosom
With a nameless longing move;
He sees not the gulfs before him,
His gaze is fixed above.
Till over boat and boatman
The Rhine's deep waters run;
And this with her magic singing
The Lorelei hath done!