|
|
There Will Come Soft Rains
By Sara Teasdale
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 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.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 878 times.
|
|
