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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XXI
Work rating: Low

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