Wednesday Poetry Corner: It's Not About the Rain

One of my favorites has been on my mind lately. Or rather, for most of my life, really: 

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 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.

I first read this poem in junior high, and memorized it quickly. I've never forgotten it. For this post's purposes, I found the text online at poets.org .