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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.  The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes.  1917.
 
The Lorelei
By Heinrich Heine (1797–1856)
 
From the Edinburgh Review

I KNOW not whence it rises,
  This thought so full of woe;
But a tale of times departed
  Haunts me, and will not go.
 
The air is cool, and it darkens,        5
  And calmly flows the Rhine;
The mountain peaks are sparkling
  In the sunny evening-shine.
 
And yonder sits a maiden,
  The fairest of the fair:        10
With gold is her garment glittering,
  As she combs her golden hair;
 
With a golden comb she combs it;
  And a wild song singeth she,
That melts the heart with a wondrous        15
  And powerful melody.
 
The boatman feels his bosom
  With a nameless longing move;
He sees not the gulfs before him,
  His gaze is fixed above;        20
 
Till over the boat and boatman
  The Rhine’s deep waters run:
And this, with her magic singing,
  The Lorelei has done!
 
 
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