Pippa Passes

Otti. Best never speak of it.

Seb. Best speak again and yet again of it, Till words cease to be more than words.

—Let me be cared about, kept out of harm, And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm;

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 heart full 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!