Lucerne

From staring eyes Of hotel windows, From flaunting rich And cringing poor, From men and women Drunken with wine, passion and money, From tired Cook's tourists Doing Switzerland on sixteen pounds, From shrieking steamers Tearing the shadow of Mount Pilatus into shreds, From bands beating out brazen music Under the twisted plane-trees, From all that is poor and rich and ugly, I lift my eyes unto the eternal hills Which are outlined upon orange and crimson By a Supreme Master with a brush of sunlight, And there my soul finds peace.