Poem by Walt Whitman

Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 49. 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 overstay'd of time,
Yet my soul-dearest leaves confirming all the rest,
The faithfulest—hardiest—last.

1. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 28. Old Salt Kossabone
2. Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 32. Life
3. Leaves of Grass. 35. Good-Bye My Fancy. 18. Sounds of the Winter
4. Leaves of Grass. 24. Autumn Rivulets. 23. To a Pupil
5. Leaves of Grass. 35. Good-Bye My Fancy. 7. The Pallid Wreath

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