Classic Poem

I KNOW not what it presages,
This heart with sadness fraught:
'Tis a tale of the olden ages,
That will not from my thought.

The air grows cool, and darkles;
The Rhine flows calmly on;
The mountain summit sparkles
In the light of the setting sun.

There sits, in soft reclining,
A maiden wondrous fair,
With golden raiment shining,
And combing her golden hair.

With a comb of gold she combs it;
And combing, low singeth she
A song of a strange, sweet sadness,
A wonderful melody.

The sailor shudders, as o'er him
The strain comes floating by;
He sees not the cliffs before him,
He only looks on high.

Ah! round him the dark waves, flinging
Their arms, draw him slowly down;
And this, with her wild, sweet singing,
The Lorelei has done.