...there will come soft rains...

THERE WILL COME SOFT RAINS and the smell of the ground,
and swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
and frongs 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 or tree,
if mankind perished utterly;
And the spring herself, when she woke at dawn
would scarcely know that we were gone.

Crónicas Marcianas