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.

-Sara Teasdale