To Switzerland, the land of lakes and snow, <br />And ancient freedom of ancestral type, <br />And modern innkeepers, who cringe and bow, <br />And venal echoes, and Pans paid to pipe! <br />See, I am come. And here in vineyards, ripe <br />With sweet white grapes, I will sit down and read <br />Once more the loves of Rousseau, till I wipe <br />My eyes in tenderness for names long dead. <br />This is the birthplace of all sentiment, <br />The fount of modern tears. These hills in me <br />Stir what still lives of fancy reverent <br />For Mother Nature. Here Time's minstrelsy <br />Awoke, some century since, one sunny morn, <br />To find Earth fortunate, and Man forlorn.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-new-pilgrimage-sonnet-xxi/
