{"id":984,"date":"2013-11-10T20:57:10","date_gmt":"2013-11-11T04:57:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/stickpersonpoetry.com\/spp\/?p=984"},"modified":"2017-09-06T14:38:12","modified_gmt":"2017-09-06T21:38:12","slug":"1110","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/stickpersonpoetry.com\/spp\/2013\/11\/10\/1110\/","title":{"rendered":"1110"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/p>\n

1110
\nWalk me out in the morning dew<\/p>\n

There Will Come Soft Rains<\/strong>
\nBy Sara Teasdale<\/p>\n

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
\nAnd swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
\nAnd frogs in the pools, singing at night,
\nAnd wild plum trees in tremulous white,
\nRobins will wear their feathery fire,
\nWhistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
\nAnd not one will know of the war, not one
\nWill care at last when it is done.
\nNot one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
\nIf mankind perished utterly;
\nAnd Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
\nWould scarcely know that we were gone.<\/p>\n