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!