You'll love me yet.
and I can tarry your love's protracted growing.
June rear'd that bunch of flowers you carry,
From seeds of April's sowing.
I plant a heartful now:
some seed at least is sure to strike,
And yield—what you'll not pluck indeed,
Not love, but, may be, like.
You'll look at least on love's remains,
A grave's one violet:
Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.
What's death?
You'll love me yet!