There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground，

    And swallows circling with their shimmering¹ sound；

    And frogs in the pools singing at night，

    And wild plum trees in tremulous white，

    Robins² will wear their feathery fire

    Whistling their whims³ 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 utterly⁴；

    And Spring herself， when she woke at dawn，

    Would scarcely know that we were gone.