You’ll Love Me Yet

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!