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Walt Whitman

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.

— Walt Whitman, “You Lingering Sparse Leaves of Me,” First Annex: Sands at Seventy, Leaves of Grass: The Deathbed Edition (BOMC, 1992)

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