Cover

Do you hear it--there,
the sibilant whisper
in the water's murmuring,
in the cold rock's lullaby?
Do you know what they say
of that fair white figure,
of that vicious golden voice?

Do you know what they call you,
Lorelei, the foolish sailors
who round your rock in the night?
Do you know what they wonder,
the lonely men on the banks of the Rhine,
on the hard winding banks
where you and I used to walk?

Do you know? Have you heard?

And what of the woman,
the lonely woman
in her bed at Goarshausen
who listens nightly
for the ghosts in your song?

I loved you, Lorelei--
more strongly than the men
who died
for a glimpse of your face--more strongly
than the faithless fool
who left you wed to the river.
I loved you, Lorelei, and nightly
I hear you, nightly I hear
the weeping of ghosts . . .

I asked nothing of you, Lorelei,
that you could not grant--
only that you give me, some dark nights,
the sight of your face,
the sound of your song . . .or if not,
only that you let me love you . . .

Or if not, only
that you let me drown.