And then there was Vitznau,
All distant and swaddled at the end of its lake.
Home to the westering sun,
A vertical crucible of evening light.
We dined there one hot summer night,Years ago when the world seemed far younger,
Not quite formed, like some rough-hewn
Sinuous, razor-backed, fist of an alp.
And then there was Vitznau,Dream-like and still, dwarfed by its mountains,
Styled by its romantic, Bel-Epoque past.
Reflected alone, in the depths of its lake.
Beacon-like in the echo of those waters
Did we dine all golden and lit.
Sun sinking over a luminous Lucerne,
Heralding the warm embrace of the night.
Beneath Pilaus and Riga on a waterside terrace,
We dined off chestnut soup and lake trout,
Served by the laughing imp of a waiter
From the old faded not jaded lakeside hotel.
And now here is Vitznau.
Years later, this cold winter’s eve.
The past, a bird’s wingbeat,
Of memory,
Vanishing into that soft alpine night.
Mark Twain went to Vitznau and wrote:
“We could not speak. We could hardly breathe.
We could only gaze in drunken ecstasy
And drink it in.”
Supper in Vitznau
“Mark Twain wrote: “I believe that this place is the loveliest in the world, and the most satisfactory. The scenery is beyond comparison beautiful… Sunday in heaven is noisy compared to this quietness.””
