The Loreley (Die Lorelei)

The Loreley

I cannot determine the meaning Of sorrow that fills my breast: A fable of old, through it streaming, Allows my mind no rest. The air is cool in the gloaming And gently flows the Rhine. The crest of the mountain is gleaming In fading rays of sunshine.

The loveliest maiden is sitting Up there, so wondrously fair; Her golden jewelry is glist’ning; She combs her golden hair. She combs with a gilded comb, preening, And sings a song, passing time. It has a most wondrous, appealing And pow’rful melodic rhyme.

The boatman aboard his small skiff, - Enraptured with a wild ache, Has no eye for the jagged cliff, - His thoughts on the heights fear forsake. I think that the waves will devour Both boat and man, by and by, And that, with her dulcet-voiced power Was done by the Loreley.

1822 poem by Heinrich Heine (translated from German by Tr. Frank in 1998)