Songs We Like to Sing

Published 1912
The Loreley

            Heinrich HeineFranz Silcher

I know not whence it cometh
That I am often sad,
A story of days departed
Will ne'er from my memory fade.
The air grows cool in the twilight,
And calm the Thine flows on,
The mountain brow is gleaming
In light of setting sun.

On yonder height there sitteth
A maiden wondrous fair,
Her golden jewels sparkle,
She combs her golden hair;
With comb of gold she combs it
And sings, so plaintively
A strain of wondrous beauty,
A potent melody.

In tiny skiff the boatman
Is seized with a wild, wild woe.
He gazeth on high unceasing;
He heeds not the cliffs below.
I fear me the boat and the boatman
Will both 'neath the waters drown,
And this with her wondrous singing,
The Loreley hath done.

© 1999, Lynn Waterman