Robert Browning

You'll love Me yet

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!