There will be a soft rain and the smell of the ground and swallow circling with the shining sound and frogs in the pools singing at right and wild plumps trees in quivering white Robins will were there feathery fire. Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; and not one will know  of the war, no one will care at lost when it’s done no one will mind, neither birds or trees will be making perished uteri; and spring herself when she awakes at down would secretly now that were done.
-DB