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!