Nine o'clock. A voice spoke from study ceiling: "Mrs. McClellan, which poem would you like this evening?"
The house was silent.
The voice said at last, "Since you express no preference, I shall select a poem at random." Quiet music ros to back the voice. "Sara Teasdale. As I recall, your favorite..."

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sounds

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robings will wera 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, whe she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

From "And There Will Come Soft Rains"--Ray Bradbury