Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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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 over-
stay'd of time,

Yet my soul-dearest leaves confirming all the rest,

The faithfulest—hardiest—last.

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