Fides, Spes by Willa Cather

Fides, Spes

Joy is come to the little

Everywhere;

Pink to the peach and pink to the apple,

White to the pear.

Stars are come to the dogwood,

Astral, pale;

Mists are pink on the red-bud,

Veil after veil.

Flutes for the feathery locusts,

Soft as spray;

Tongues of the lovers for chestnuts, poplars,

Babbling May.

Yellow plumes for the willows’

Wind-blown hair;

Oak trees and sycamores only

Comfortless bare.

Sore from steel and the watching,

Somber and old,—

Wooing robes for the beeches, larches,

Splashed with gold;

Breath o’ love to the lilac,

Warm with noon.—

Great hearts cold when the little

Beat mad so soon.

What is their faith to bear it

Till it come,

Waiting with rain-cloud and swallow,

Frozen, dumb?