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！

Robert Browning