There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

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And frogs in the pools singing at night,

And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

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Robins will wear their feathery fire

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

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And not one will know of the war, not one

Will care at last when it is done.

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Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree

If mankind perished utterly;

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And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,

Would scarcely know that we were gone.