You lingering sparse leaves of me on winter-nearing boughs...

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 July clover-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.