There Will Come Soft Rain / Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rain 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.