Poem of the Week--#1

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.

Sara Teasdale 1920