Author: Robert Browning
You’ll love me yet!–and I can tarry
Your love’s protracted 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 remains,
A grave’s one violet:
Your look?–that pays a thousand pains.
What’s death? You’ll love me yet!
