(War Time)
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.
