I was in Dijon when the war's wild blast <br />Was at its loudest; when there was no sound <br />From dawn to dawn, save soldiers marching past, <br />Or rattle of their wagons in the street. <br />When every engine whistle would repeat <br />Persistently, with meaning tense, profound, <br />'We carry men to slaughter' or 'we bring <br />Remnants of men back as war's offering.' <br /> <br /> <br />And there in Dijon, the out-gazing eye <br />Grew weary of the strife-suggesting scene; <br />But, searching, found one quiet spot hard by <br />Where war was not; a little lake whereon <br />Moved leisurely a stately, tranquil swan, <br />Majestic and imposing, yet serene. <br /> <br /> <br />I was in Dijon, when no sound or sight <br />Woke thoughts of peace, save this one speck of white, <br />Sailing 'neath skies of menace, unafraid <br />While silver fountains for his pleasure played. <br />Dear Swan of Dijon, it was your good part <br />To rest a tired heart.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-swan-of-dijon/
