You'll love me yet!—and I can tarry

Your love's protracted growing:

June reared 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!