The poem
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!