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!


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