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I know not if there is a reason
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Why I am so sad at heart.
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A legend of bygone ages
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Haunts me and will not depart.
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The air is cool under nightfall.
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The calm Rhine courses its way.
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The peak of the mountain is sparkling
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With evening's final ray.
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The fairest of maidens is sitting
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Unwittingly wondrous up there,
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Her golden jewels are shining,
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She's combing her golden hair.
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The comb she holds is golden,
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She sings a song as well
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Whose melody binds an enthralling
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And overpowering spell.
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In his little boat, the boatman
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Is seized with a savage woe,
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He'd rather look up at the mountain
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Than down at the rocks below.
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I think that the waves will devour
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The boatman and boat as one;
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And this by her song's sheer power
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