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?
Sara Teasdale (1884 - 1933)
American Poet and winner of the 1918 Poetry Society Prize.
Sources:
Teasdale, Sara.Rivers to the Sea,1915.
Public domain text taken from The Poets’ Corner:
http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/books/teasdale/rivers01.html
CST Approved