Sara Teasdale

There Will Come Soft Rain

There will come soft rain 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.
Altre opere di Sara Teasdale...



Alto