I know not what it presages,This heart with sadness fraught, 'T is a tale of the olden ages,That will not from my thought.The air grows cool and darkles,The Rhine flows calmly on, The mountain summit sparklesIn the light of the setting sun.There sits in soft recliningA maiden wondrous fair, With golden raiment shining,And combing her golden hair.With a comb of gold she combs it,And combing, low singeth she, A song of a strange, sweet sadness,A wonderful melody.
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