In the Dark

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.

by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

This entry was posted on May 13, 2015 at 9:42 am and is filed under Poetry with tags Poetry, Sara Teasdale, There will come soft rains. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.