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.


Teasdale, Sara.Rivers to the Sea,1915.

Public domain text taken from The Poets’ Corner:

CST Approved