Читать книгу Complete Works - Walt Whitman - Страница 376

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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.