by Whitman · Cluster: Seasons · Winter · Autumn
Abstract
The poet likens himself to a well-shorn tree’s last sparse leaves on winter-nearing boughs, the hardiest and last.
Connections
Topoi: Memento Mori Motifs: Leaves, Autumn, Winter, Seasons Themes & Concepts: Mortality, Self-Knowledge Forms & Genres: Lyric
Testo integrale / Full text
Cluster: SANDS AT SEVENTY
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.