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?