Brown was the heather,
The sky was blue;
We sat together
Where flowers grew.
Is this the thrilling
Nightingale's beat?
Are larks still trilling
Their numbers sweet?
I spend the hours
Exiled from thee;
Spring has brought flowers,
But none for me.
Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by Charles Harvey Genung.
LORELEI
'Tis very late, 'tis growing cold;
Alone thou ridest through the wold?
The way is long, there's none to see,
Ah, lovely maid, come follow me.
"I know men's false and guileful art,
And grief long since has rent my heart.
I hear the huntsman's bugle there:
Oh fly,—thou know'st me not,—beware!"
So richly is the steed arrayed,
So wondrous fair the youthful maid,
I know thee now—too late to fly!
Thou art the witch, the Lorelei.