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?


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

Anton Chekhov
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Stephen Leacock
Kate Chopin
Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson