You Lingering Sparse Leaves of Me
You lingering sparse leaves of me on winter-nearing boughs,And I some well-shorn tree of field or orchard-row;You tokens diminute and lorn—(not now the flush of May, or Julyclover-bloom—no grain of August now;)You pallid banner-staves—you pennants valueless—you overstay’d of time,Yet my soul-dearest leaves confirming all the rest,The faithfulest—hardiest—last.