I know not what it may mean to-day
That I am to grief inclined;
There’s a tale of a Siren—an old-world lay—
That I can not get out of my mind.
The air is cool in the twilight gray,
And quietly flows the Rhine;
On the ridge of the cliff, at the close of the day
The rays of the sunset shine.
There sits a maiden, richly dight,
And wonderfully fair;