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

and swallows circling with their shimmering sound,

and frogs in pools singing at night,

and wild plum trees in tremulous white.

robins will wear their feathery fire,

whistling whims on a low fence wire,

and not one will know of the war.

not one will care when it is done.

not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,

and spring herself, when she woke at dawn

would scarcely know that we were gone.

-sara teasdale