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 is 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.