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!SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
The script ran 0.001 seconds.
