by Robert Browning
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!