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?