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.”