Softly the plash of the glittering fountain Falls on the night with the scent of mimosa, Mingled with polyglot phrases and laughter, Marking the pause 'twixt a waltz and mazurka. Soft are the lamps in the Kursaal rotunda Lighting discreetly the hall of lost footsteps Whose gleaming mosaics are painted with garlands, Blossoms exotic, luxuriant, languid, Red as the souls of the people about them, Hinting at passions through crimson and purple, Fitting the vogue of this temple of pleasure. On a divan in the hall where the idlers Promenade slowly, in converse together, I sit all alone in calm contemplation, Hearing the orchestra faint in the distance And the croupier's voice from his chamber seductive, Parrot-like crying in stale iteration, Summons and challenge across the green table. Keen-eyed old gamesters who prowl round the players, Seeking a pigeon to pluck at their leisure: Black-whiskered barons with blurred reputations Smirking at B. and his girls from Chicago: Swaggering captains at best detrimental: A country-bred youth just come to a fortune, Trying in vain to conceal his amazement: Couples awaiting the Absolute's fiat, Now in pursuit of a flying illusion: Hebrews from Frankfort and bankers from Paris Chatting to ladies resplendent in diamonds; A burgess of London whose wife says: "Disgraceful," But lingers to study Parisian fashions: Gamblers inveterate bent to a system, Silent, unheeding, absorbed in their figures: Well-groomed young fellows, light-hearted and careless, Come for the dance and the fun of flirtation, Bright-eyed and merry, unconsciously breathing The poisonous air of sepulchres whited. Perdita, watchful and guardedly smiling, Trying to lessen the distance between us, Wafts me a sign with a spray of verbena. Is she an angel, a beast or a demon, Or spirit incarnate that onward is passing To higher avatars by long transmigration? Ah! how it warms one, this human deflection, This touch with familiar follies and foibles, After the limitless space of the aeons, Out of the measure of time as we know it, Far in the distant and echoless ages, Austere, and untouched by our passing emotions, Where I have wandered in lonely remoteness Under the passionless spell of the mountains. 

 Cold and relentless, eternally lasting! Silent inscriptions in cryptical cipher! Unbroken record of time since creation, Whose secret is hid from human conception. How small are the things humanity prizes, The feverish joys of passion and pleasure, That pass like a dream to dusky oblivion! How short is man's life compared with the ages That frown from the face of the mystical mountains, Far in the blue o'er the waters of Leman. 

 

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