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SHRIKE
PLUCKS THE THORN
FROM HER CHEST
PLUCKS THE THORN
FROM HER CHEST
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sorrowful blade of the softly-falling rain
There will come soft rains
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.
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.