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    There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
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    And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
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    And frogs in the pools, singing at night,
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    And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
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    Robins will wear their feathery fire,
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    Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
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    And not one will know of the war, not one
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    Will care at last when it is done.
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    Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
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    If mankind perished utterly;
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    And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
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    Would scarcely know that we were gone.
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    β€”Sara Teasdale, 1920
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    (Also read the amazing Ray Bradbury story in The Martian Chronicles with this same title)