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 oneWill care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawnWould scarcely know that we were gone.