Everywhere.

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