There will come soft rains and the
smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their
shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at
night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous
white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low
fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war,
not one
Will care at last when it done.

Not one would mind, neither bird
nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke
at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.