And with the murmur of the Rhine will come
Those legends which have flung, as from a sky
We cannot see but with the inner eye,
A light that rests as in its chosen home,
On hill, and peak, and old gray towers that stand
Like sentinels to guard the rear of Time;
For he, too, lingers in that fairy clime,
And turns the glass with an unwilling hand.
Sweet Rolandseck and sweeter Drachenfels
Shall be with me, and glimpses of the vine
Big with the purple promise of the wine;
Bingen, whereon the sloping sunshine dwells;
The Lorelei rock, whose echoes still prolong
The moonlight witchery of Heine's song.