You Lingering Sparse Leaves of Me
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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.
| from Leaves of Grass: BOOK XXXIV. SANDS AT SEVENTY by Walt Whitman | |
| Twilight (by Walt Whitman) | Not Meagre, Latent Boughs Alone 
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