The Swan Of Dijon
I was in Dijon when the war's wild blast
Was at its loudest; when there was no sound
From dawn to dawn, save soldiers marching past,
Or rattle of their wagons in the street.
When every engine whistle would repeat
Persistently, with meaning tense, profound,
'We carry men to slaughter' or 'we bring
Remnants of men back as war's offering.'
And there in Dijon, the out-gazing eye
Grew weary of the strife-suggesting scene;
But, searching, found one quiet spot hard by
Where war was not; a little lake whereon
Moved leisurely a stately, tranquil swan,
Majestic and imposing, yet serene.
I was in Dijon, when no sound or sight
Woke thoughts of peace, save this one speck of white,
Sailing 'neath skies of menace, unafraid
While silver fountains for his pleasure played.
Dear Swan of Dijon, it was your good part
To rest a tired heart.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Related quotes
The White Swan
kiss the lake at dawn
graceful, divine, majestic
new queen, the white swan
haiku by Marius Alexandru (27 December 2020)
Submitted by anonym
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fRANCE: THREE DAYS
The landscape has rolling hills
WE traveled by car
courtesy of
cousin Ben,
to Metz, Strasbourg, Nancy and Dijon.
we stopped for wines: the magnificent pinot noirs
and chardonnays
exquisitewise
the famous 'Yellow wine'
from the Jura mountain
vineyard
got a postcard for
you, old ways do not die
another pic
for FB coming.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Restless
Theres a kind of a restless feeling and it pulls me from within
It sets my senses reeling and my wheels begin to spin
In the quietude of winter you can hear the wild geese cry
And I will always love that sound until the day I die
Theres a plain and a simple answer to each and every quest
From every quiet dance who might be a special guest
In a movie made for tv or a late night interview
You might even find them on the young and the restless too
Do ya get that restless feelin when you hear a whistle blast
Like an echo from the past
Of an old engine flyin down a road thats ironcast
The lake is blue, the sky is gray, the leaves have turned to gold
The wild goose will be on her way, the weathers much too cold
When the muskie and the old trout too have all gone down to rest
We will be returning to the things that we love best
Do ya get that restless yearning when you think about your dad
And the scrimshaw that he had
Of an old schooner rovin neath a sky thats ironclad
Theres a kind of a restless feeling and it catches you off guard
As we gaze off at the distance through the trees in my back yard
I can feel that restless yearning of those geese as off they roam
Then trade that for a warm bed and a place I can call home
Will ya get that restless yearning when you hear the wicked blast
Of a spectre from the past
Of a cold diesel rollin down a road thats built to last
Still I get that restless feelin when I hear a whistle blast
See an image from the past
Of an old schooner flyin down a sky thats overcast
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The haunting of a hunter
Once upon a time in the early hours of dawn
A man got up and sallied from his cottage door
Athwart his shoulders a bow and arrows he carried
And towards the forest his steps he hurried.
All day he searched a target for his arrow
Finding none, his anguish grew sharp and narrow.
Hunger and thirst tortured him all day till dusk
And fatigue and pain settled in his limbs to last
Toward the evening as the sun sunk
He by the lake watched a pair of dove white swans
Tall and amorous they looked
As they court their image in a shady nook.
At once an arrow he lanced at one.
A stream of blood red gashed out of the swan.
Late at night his heavy limbs upon a pallet he laid.
Seeking comfort from an adventure long and languid
An unfamiliar dream claimed his haunted rest.
A tortured maid into his slumber burst.
In her one hand she held a white snow feather.
Her tearful, beautiful eyes at him all night were fixed for ever
'What sin what crime you have found in my white dove love? '
She cried engulfed in her loath
Back and forth walked the man in his chamber
Trying to shake off a day not to remember
At the early hour of the next dawn
A man from his cottage door was gone
Across his shoulders a bow and an arrow he took
And in the forest gloom for a well known lake he look
Against the morning sun a single swan he found
With statuesque grace and divine virtue she circled around
A long hour he spotted the sailing swan, alone among none.
Recalling his dreadful dream he knew she was the one.
His inwards were gnawed by regrets
He wished he had never so far strayed
Despair and sorrow dried his tongue
And then at once, he lanced the arrow in his lung
copy rights 2010
Gloire de Dijon
When she rises in the morning
I linger to watch her;
She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the window
And the sunbeams catch her
Glistening white on the shoulders,
While down her sides the mellow
Golden shadow glows as
She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts
Sway like full-blown yellow
Gloire de Dijon roses.
She drips herself with water, and her shoulders
Glisten as silver, they crumple up
Like wet and falling roses, and I listen
For the sluicing of their rain-dishevelled petals.
In the window full of sunlight
Concentrates her golden shadow
Fold on fold, until it glows as
Mellow as the glory roses.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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The Mirror
Between the woods the afternoon
Its fallen in a golden swoon,
The sun looks down from quiet skies
To where a quiet water lies,
And silent trees stoop down to the trees.
And there I saw a white swan make
Another white swan in the lake;
And, breast to breast, both motionless,
They waited for the wind's caress. . .
And all the water was at ease.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Birth and Renewal
The womb that brought her forth gave birth to my attachment to her, a cold night may give birth to a warm day, but brighter and more rarely seen is a woman of virtue relieved of unclean ways.
In my path many flowers I have picked, inhaled of their various scents and have since considered insufficient, worthless is the soil of unfertile ground, but the raised land is beloved by me accentuating the sun's rays as it wanes in its round.
Many were the days when comfort eluded those without crop, but one cannot cultivate when the fertile embrace of love has escaped.
poem by Dijon Noble
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A Swan Song(dying sentence)
Remember me, remember my swan song,
I can't re-orient myself,
I can't live it all over again,
I can't re-orient myself,
I can't live that stain of my plastered smile again,
Let this be the last moment,
Let me say the last good-bye,
It won't count anything now,
So let me lay in silence,
Life has treated me well and I have had enough of it,
Lets end this game,
Enough of milling in and out,
Hear my swan song,
And let this end now,
I need to be away,
away from these thorns,
far far away,
Where you'll only see my memories,
my shadows,
my untold stories buried after me,
and my last swan song,
Hear my swan song,
I feel like a fish out of water,
from pillar to post,
fallen back upon,
Let me be buried under sand,
let me give my final test,
I'll never return, its time to sing,
sing my last swan song,
Hear my swan song,
maybe this moment or the other,
my soul would rest in peace,
before disappearing,
let me sing,
sing my swan song,
I only remember now the memory lived in me,
a perfectly encapsulated morsel,
of a good past,
from piebald brush strokes swaying,
to barren now, that I'd become,
As I'll say my last goodbye,
hear my swan song,
because now you'll never hear my voice again,
for ever and ever and ever...
Written on 5/6/11
poem by Ayesha Riaz
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Marigold: Gloria Swansong
(sylvester / clarke)
The book I bought yesterday
I started to read
I found a small marigold
Pressed between leaves
And in that small marigold,
Well, I found a note
Saying, please wont you write to me
cause Im so alone
So Im going to write back today
Yes, Im going to write right away
I started dear marigold,
Not knowing her name
I just had to write to you
cause I feel the same
You sound like the marigold
That I found today
The beauty was there to be found
But fading away
So Im writing to you today
Yes, Im writing to you right away
As I started writing,
Well what can I say
I got to thinking
Where are you today
Brown leather cover,
Ripped, tattered, and torn
Its been such a long, long time
Since the flower was born
Theres no need to write back today
Im not going write right away
Just like a swan she is gliding,
Drifting from here unto there
She has no thoughts of dying,
Winter does not mean despair
Warm summer nights left behind her,
Thinking of things that shes done
Once were her friends all around her,
But now she is only one
Swan, swan keep your feet off the ground
Keep flying around
Its lonely youve found
You were left on your own
You didnt do right
Not to take off and fly
When your friends left that night
Chorus
Someday I know youll see something
That will bring back the memories of gold
Youll meet the friends that did leave you
No more to be left in the cold
And just like a swan youll be gliding,
Drifting from here unto there
Youll have no thoughts of dying
cause winter did not mean despair
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sing Me A Swan-song Not
Sing me a swan-song not, the tacit allegory
Of all the shadows that squander in the squalid vale
When the Sun, kingly, circumnavigating in circumspect
All over the gardens of plush askance - sing me a swan-song not.
Sing me a swan-song not, pale lover
For as the ides dawn a marching twine
Here I wait, like a tavern-frequenter, longing to behold
The intoxication of your supple wine,
Your dank submission, and your obsequiousness resembling
A flower toadied; a stem of savvy mysticism.
Sing me a swan-song not, in and out of the madness
The drizzle upon the pliant seethe of gray fire carries
The semblance of the quietus: have you seen a taciturn storm
Upon a battered doorstep love? That is I, a calm tempest -
An angst-ridden farcical or perhaps, the behest of the lustre
Of romance. And so sing me a swan-song not, dear love
Traipse alongside in an entwined manner, a sequestering specification
Of the gracious moon in the midnight soiree of unsheathed dreams.
Sing me a swan-song not, never, not even for a day, love
The fountains of bliss are situated in each wayward corner
Of the pallid walls where we break and amalgamate ourselves
Again - that is where I found you, wincing away into the sultry air
A soul confined to the thresholds of a bewailing thousand-shards;
Sing me a swan-song not, I will croon the lullaby of a
Thousand-fabled joys and a too-sudden image cast into
These eyes. Sing me a swan-song not, as I knock upon
Your doorstep, waking you in your unsettling slumber,
Professing love, like a flame whilst speaking, tongue in a knot:
Love, sing me a swan-song not in the time of your iridescences!
poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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The Watcher
I think I hear the sound of horses' feet
Beating upon the graveled avenue.
Go to the window that looks on the street,
He would not let me die alone, I knew.'
Back to the couch the patient watcher passed,
And said: 'It is the wailing of the blast.'
She turned upon her couch and, seeming, slept,
The long, dark lashes shadowing her cheek;
And on and on the weary moments crept,
When suddenly the watcher heard her speak:
'I think I hear the sound of horses' hoofs-'
And answered, ''Tis the rain upon the roofs.'
Unbroken silence, quiet, deep, profound.
The restless sleeper turns: 'How dark, how late!
What is it that I hear-a trampling sound?
I think there is a horseman at the gate.'
The watcher turns away her eyes tear-blind:
'It is the shutter beating in the wind.'
The dread hours passed; the patient clock ticked on;
The weary watcher moved not from her place.
The gray dim shadows of the early dawn
Caught sudden glory from the sleeper's face.
'He comes! my love! I knew he would!' she cried;
And smiling sweetly in her slumbers, died.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Lay Down Your Weary Tune
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
Struck by the sounds before the sun,
I knew the night had gone.
The morning breeze like a bugle blew
Against the drums of dawn.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
The ocean wild like an organ played,
The seaweeds wove its strands.
The crashin waves like cymbals clashed
Against the rocks and sands.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
I stood unwound beneath the skies
And clouds unbound by laws.
The cryin rain like a trumpet sang
And asked for no applause.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
The last of leaves fell from the trees
And clung to a new loves breast.
The branches bare like a banjo played
To the winds that listened best.
I gazed down in the rivers mirror
And watched its winding strum.
The water smooth ran like a hymn
And like a harp did hum.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Be And So On
To Be or…
The swan on the lake doesn’t know it is a swan,
they say. How do they know? A swan may look
at us and say to another swan “Darling humans
don’t who they are.” Quite right my lovely, they
are daft that way” (swans have lot in common
with actors, the lake is their stage and we are
their adoring audience) I know that because Tom,
the only actor I have met in the flesh, called me
darling, well, not only me but everyone he spoke
to. Tom died no one calls me darling anymore.
We only think we know ourselves, if we really did
it would be too scary to know that inside us lurks
a monster.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Philosophers Stone
Out on the highways and the by-ways all alone
Im still searching for, searching for my home
Up in the morning, up in the morning out on the road
And my head is aching and my hands are cold
And Im looking for the silver lining, silver lining in the clouds
And Im searching for and
Im searching for the philosophers stone
And its a hard road, its a hard road daddy-o
When my job is turning lead into gold
He was born in the back street, born in the back street jelly roll
Im on the road again and Im searching for
The philosophers stone
Can you hear that engine
Woe can you hear that engine drone
Well Im on the road again and Im searching for
Searching for the philosophers stone
Up in the morning, up in the morning
When the streets are white with snow
Its a hard road, its a hard road daddy-o
Up in the morning, up in the morning
Out on the job
Well youve got me searching for
Searching for, the philosophers stone
Even my best friends, even my best friends they dont know
That my job is turning lead into gold
When you hear that engine, when you hear that engine drone
Im on the road again and Im searching for the philosophers stone
Its a hard road even my best friends they dont know
And Im searching for, searching for the philosophers stone
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Terrible Night
In the sweetest moment
of the night,
when sleep and dreams would
relieve and encompass
conscious thoughts.
I heard a sound.
I was awaken by the sound.
The sound came from the
door and it was lighter than
the tick of the clock.
I rested on the wall.
Hugged myself with a
preambulating heart
that has refuse comfort
because of the quiet sound.
The sound came again.
This time it was rapid.
Sinking me deep in fear,
enveloping me with goose pimple.
Suddenly, the sound stopped.
I stared at the door,
awaiting my fate.
For the night is still young and
deep within i long for dawn.
I waited.
There was nothing. Every
thing was quiet, too quiet.
Except sound from my beating
heart and tickling clock.
My eyes were wide open.
I focused on the door while
my thoughts move to and fro
my past and present deeds.
Oh Lord i cry, forgive me.
Time passed by.
The cock crow, immediately
i had a staggering courage.
I walked slowly to the door,
with immerse fear, i opened it.
With great sigh, i was relieved
though i had lost my sleep.
All this while, i have been
denied a good night by my
neighbour's dog, who was
found sleeping close to my door.
poem by Enebeli Ifyprada
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The Swan And The Fawn
Finely Freckled Fawn called to Suave, Stately Swan,
“Please help me quickly. I need you to come on.
When I took a drink in the pond, what did I see?
But a poor little fawn drowning who looked just like me.”
Sir Swan explained “Be calm my dear and listen here.
It’s only your reflection.” he explained with affection.
“Each time you take a drink just think how you can smile,
As that pretty face looking at you is happy all the while.”
“Oh thank you Sir Swan.” said the grateful Freckled Fawn.
“All my fears and all my tears from now on will be gone.
Suave, Stately Swan and Finely Freckled Fawn are friends
Because of thoughtfulness and gratitude upon which friendship depends.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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Summer Afternoon
I watched as swans went gliding by,
Gazing at gracefulness so sleek,
Then spied a dancing dragonfly,
Displaying its beauty, so unique.
And as I sat down by the stream,
The swans majestic, drifted on,
A sight of enchantment so supreme,
As on this scene, the sunbeams shone.
With rippling sounds that filled the air,
So restful that such a gentle tune,
Made this a place extraordinaire,
There, this mild summer afternoon.
The wind moved softly down the creek,
And whispered to the swaying grass,
As if to say, with tongue-in-cheek,
Bow down. Let me unhindered pass.
And so the swans sailed out of view,
Around the bend and out of sight,
The dragonfly with thoughts anew,
Flew off into the warm sunlight.
Thus I was left to contemplate,
How calm and still, this quiet place,
How such a spot can encapsulate,
And my weary heart to so embrace.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Children of Lir
Out upon the sand-dunes thrive the coarse long grasses;
Herons standing knee-deep in the brackish pool;
Overhead the sunset fire and flame amasses
And the moon to eastward rises pale and cool.
Rose and green around her, silver-gray and pearly,
Chequered with the black rooks flying home to bed;
For, to wake at daybreak, birds must couch them early:
And the day's a long one since the dawn was red.
On the chilly lakelet, in that pleasant gloaming,
See the sad swans sailing: they shall have no rest:
Never a voice to greet them save the bittern's booming
Where the ghostly sallows sway against the West.
'Sister,' saith the gray swan, 'Sister, I am weary,'
Turning to the white swan wet, despairing eyes;
'O' she saith, 'my young one! O' she saith, 'my dearie !'
Casts her wings about him with a storm of cries.
Woe for Lir's sweet children whom their vile stepmother
Glamoured with her witch-spells for a thousand years;
Died their father raving, on his throne another,
Blind before the end came from the burning tears.
Long the swans have wandered over lake and river;
Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir:
Gone and long forgotten like a dream of fever:
But the swans remember the sweet days that were.
Hugh, the black and white swan with the beauteous feathers,
Fiachra, the black swan with the emerald breast,
Conn, the youngest, dearest, sheltered in all weathers,
Him his snow-white sister loves the tenderest.
These her mother gave her as she lay a-dying;
To her faithful keeping; faithful hath she been,
With her wings spread o'er them when the tempest's crying,
And her songs so hopeful when the sky's serene.
Other swans have nests made 'mid the reeds and rushes,
Lined with downy feathers where the cygnets sleep
Dreaming, if a bird dreams, till the daylight blushes,
Then they sail out swiftly on the current deep.
With the proud swan-father, tall, and strong, and stately,
And the mild swan-mother, grave with household cares,
All well-born and comely, all rejoicing greatly:
Full of honest pleasure is a life like theirs.
But alas ! for my swans with the human nature,
Sick with human longings, starved for human ties,
With their hearts all human cramped to a bird's stature.
And the human weeping in the bird's soft eyes.
Never shall my swans build nests in some green river,
Never fly to Southward in the autumn gray,
Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever;
Robbed alike of bird's joys and of man's are they.
Babbles Conn the youngest, 'Sister, I remember
At my father's palace how I went in silk,
Ate the juicy deer-flesh roasted from the ember,
Drank from golden goblets my child's draught of milk.
Once I rode a-hunting, laughed to see the hurry,
Shouted at the ball-play, on the lake did row;
You had for your beauty gauds that shone so rarely.'
'Peace' saith Fionnuala, 'that was long ago.'
'Sister,' saith Fiachra, 'well do I remember
How the flaming torches lit the banquet-hall,
And the fire leapt skyward in the mid-December,
And among the rushes slept our staghounds tall.
By our father's right hand you sat shyly gazing,
Smiling half and sighing, with your eyes a-glow,
As the bards sang loudly all your beauty praising. '
'Peace,' saith Fionnuala, 'that was long ago.'
'Sister,' then saith Hugh 'most do I remember
One I called my brother, one, earth's goodliest man,
Strong as forest oaks are where the wild vines clamber,
First at feast or hunting, in the battle's van.
Angus, you were handsome, wise, and true, and tender,
Loved by every comrade, feared by every foe:
Low, low, lies your beauty, all forgot your splendour.'
'Peace,' saith Fionnuala, 'that was long ago.'
Dews are in the clear air and the roselight paling;
Over sands and sedges shines the evening star;
And the moon's disc lonely high in heaven is sailing;
Silvered all the spear-heads of the rushes are.
Housed warm are all things as the night grows colder,
Water-fowl and sky-fowl dreamless in the nest;
But the swans go drifting, drooping wing and shoulder
Cleaving the still water where the fishes rest.
poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Peace - An End
Peace is a word
Of the sea and the wind.
Peace is a bird who sings
As you smile.
Peace is the love
Of a foe as a friend;
Peace is the love you bring
To a child
Searching for me
You look everywhere,
Except beside you.
Searching for you
You look everywhere,
But not inside you.
Peace is a stream
From the heart of a man;
Peace is a man, whose breadth
Is the dawn.
Peace is a dawn
On a day without end;
Peace is the end, like death
Of the war.
song performed by by King Crimson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Coole Park And Ballylee, 1931
Under my window-ledge the waters race,
Otters below and moor-hens on the top,
Run for a mile undimmed in Heaven's face
Then darkening through 'dark' Raftery's 'cellar' drop,
Run underground, rise in a rocky place
In Coole demesne, and there to finish up
Spread to a lake and drop into a hole.
What's water but the generated soul?
Upon the border of that lake's a wood
Now all dry sticks under a wintry sun,
And in a copse of beeches there I stood,
For Nature's pulled her tragic buskin on
And all the rant's a mirror of my mood:
At sudden thunder of the mounting swan
I turned about and looked where branches break
The glittering reaches of the flooded lake.
Another emblem there! That stormy white
But seems a concentration of the sky;
And, like the soul, it sails into the sight
And in the morning's gone, no man knows why;
And is so lovely that it sets to right
What knowledge or its lack had set awry,
So atrogantly pure, a child might think
It can be murdered with a spot of ink.
Sound of a stick upon the floor, a sound
From somebody that toils from chair to chair;
Beloved books that famous hands have bound,
Old marble heads, old pictures everywhere;
Great rooms where travelled men and children found
Content or joy; a last inheritor
Where none has reigned that lacked a name and fame
Or out of folly into folly came.
A spot whereon the founders lived and died
Seemed once more dear than life; ancestral trees,
Or gardens rich in memory glorified
Marriages, alliances and families,
And every bride's ambition satisfied.
Where fashion or mere fantasy decrees
We shift about - all that great glory spent -
Like some poor Arab tribesman and his tent.
We were the last romantics - chose for theme
Traditional sanctity and loveliness;
Whatever's written in what poets name
The book of the people; whatever most can bless
The mind of man or elevate a rhyme;
But all is changed, that high horse riderless,
Though mounted in that saddle Homer rode
Where the swan drifts upon a darkening flood.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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