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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A BOY'S MOTHER by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY MEDITATION AT KEW by ANNA WICKHAM ROMEO AND JULIET by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH WELCOME GUEST by JEAN D. ARMSTRONG ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |