Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

There will come soft rains

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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.

Readings

There will come soft rains
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