Sara Teasdale

May Day

A delicate fabric of bird song
 Floats in the air,
The smell of wet wild earth
 Is everywhere.

Red small leaves of the maple
 Are clenched like a hand,
Like girls at their first communion
 The pear trees stand.

Oh I must pass nothing by
 Without loving it much,
The raindrop try with my lips,
 The grass with my touch;

For how can I be sure
 I shall see again
The world on the first of May
 Shining after the rain?