II.— 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.