Pink to the Peach and Pink to the Apple

Fides, Spes
by Willa Cather 

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 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 of love from the lilacs,
 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?