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!