Classic Poem

I know not why, but a measure
Of sadness o'er me I find;
And a tale from the fairy treasure
That will not out of my mind.

The air is cool and 'tis darkling,
And peacefully flows the Rhine;
And the mountain tops are sparkling
In the sun's departing shine.

A wondrous form sits beaming
With beauty over there;
Her golden raiment gleaming;
She combs her golden hair.

A golden comb she uses,
And sings, the while, a song;
The melody she infuses
Is witchery strange and strong.

His skiff, a boatman is speeding,
By the wild enchantment led;
He sees not where it is leading,
Sees but the vision ahead.

To the doom the waves are bringing,
The boat and the boatman run:
And this, with her siren-singing,
The Lorelei hath done.