I know not what it betideth,
That I am so sad at heart;
A tale of the past abideth
In my soul and will not depart.
It is cool and the twilight darkles,
And peacefully flows the Rhine;
And the brow of the mountain sparkles
In the flush of the soft sunshine.
The queenliest maiden beameth
In radiant beauty there;
The gold of her jewels gleameth,
She combeth her golden hair.
With a golden comb she combeth,
And singeth the while a song,
That floats, like the wind that roameth,
In quivering chants along.
The boatman yon frail bark steering,
Is seized with a wild aifright;
He sees not the cliffs he is nearing,
He views but the mountain height.
I fear me the waves are bringing
The boatman and boat to naught;
And this with her fateful singing
The Lore-Lei hath wrought.