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.
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, nether 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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I found this poem in an old school poetry text book "For All Seasons."
