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 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.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'There Will Come Soft Rains' by Sara Teasdale

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy