May Day


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?


facebook share button twitter share button reddit share button share on pinterest pinterest

Add May Day to your library.

Return to the Sara Teasdale library , or . . . Read the next poem; May Night

© 2022