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.