  4. The year's at the spring And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn: God's in his heaven— All's right with the world! 5. 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! |
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