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

      July clover-bloom—no grain of August now;)

You pallid banner-staves—you pennants valueless—you over-stay'doverstay'd of time,

Yet my soul-dearest leaves confirming all the rest,

The faithfulest—hardiest—last.