LAKE OF THE FOUR CANTONS

High over the lake, at the dawning,
 I see from my balcony chair
Two little white towns on the mountain,
 Poised in the upper air.

And up on the round cliff above them
 And down to the gray bluffs are seen
The mingled meadows and forests—
 The Youth and the Age of green.

Like plowshares left in the furrow
 The long slopes are thrust in the lake;
And untrodden alps to the skyward
 A snowy silence make.

Serene, on the emerald water,
 Revealed by the sunrise rays,
The towering Frohnalp behind me
 Its purple shadow lays.

And while from this Beauty supernal
 I miss only Music's chord,
A bell from a distant steeple
 Swings incense to the Lord!

Ah, yonder is Rütli landing,
 And there is the Schiller-stone!
And the fame that he made immortal
 Is merged in the poet's own.

For this is the Lake of Heroes,
 Who won their land's release
And gave to a happy country
 Its centuries of peace.

Their strength was of the mountains,
 Their calm was of the noon,
And all the tired and troubled
 May share in the blessed boon.

Yet, though I sense the beauty
 Of Nature's restful heart,
I feel a human hunger
 For more of Love and Art.

The train in the tunnel beneath me
 Goes joyously to Rome!
And over the sea there waits a child
 Whose open arms are home.