| 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 scarely know that we were gone.
-- there will come soft rains, by sarah teasdale
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