The Loreley

Mark Twain (nach H. Heine)

I cannot divine what it meaneth
This haunting nameless pain:
A tale of the bygone ages
Weeps brooding through my brain.

The faint air cools in the gloaming.
And peaceful flows the Rhine,
The thirsty summite are drinking
The sunset's flooding wine.

The loviest maiden is sitting
High - thrones in yon blue air,
Her golden jewels are shining
She combs her golden hair;

She combs with a comb that is golden,
And sings a weerd refrain;
That steeps in a deadly enchantment
The listener's ravished brain.

The doomed in his drifting shallop
Is tranced with the sad sweet tone,
He sees not the yawning breakers.
He sees but the maid alone.

The pittiless billows engulf him!
So perish sailor and bark,
And this, with her baleful singing,
Is the Loreley's gruesome work.