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.