Daily Whitman


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.



Posted on 27/10/2015, in literature, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: