May Day

Sara Teasdale - 1884-1933

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?