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There Will Come Soft Rains

A poem 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 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.


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Victory Rose
mypaleskin
A delicate boy in the hysterical realm

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