There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, and swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pool 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.
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