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!