You'll love me yet！——and I can tarry

　　Your love's protracted¹ growing；

　　June rear'd 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 remains²，

　　A grave's one violet：

　　Your look？——that pays a thousand pains.

　　What's death？ You'll love me yet！

Robert Browning