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.