Classic Poem

I cannot tell what it presages
This weight of sorrow and care
A tale from the by-gone ages
In my mind, that will linger there.

The cool twilight o'er all is dreaming,
And the Rhine flows calmly on;
The mountain summit is gleaming
In the glow of the evening sun.

There sitteth alone a maiden
High over us, wondrous fair,
Her robe gleams jewel-laden,
And she combs her golden hair.

With a golden comb her tresses
She combs as she sings a lay,
And the melody weird possesses
A power to which none can say nay.

In his craft doth the boatman listen
With a deep, grief-laden sigh,
He sees not the white foam glisten
But his look is fixed on the sky.

Now high the wild billows are springing,
And boatman and skiff are gone;
And this with thy wondrous singing
Thou, Lore-Ley, hast done.