One Hundred Years
 
One hundred years
from now
when everything now
is nothing,
seems even
as if it never were,
will some poor
scholar gypsy
tramp the woods
alone-
humming tunes
I made for you
maybe missing
half the words
from long disuse . . .
And will he tramp
more heartworn
or will he tramp
more resolute
when he thinks
one hundred years ago
there was one
who truly loved-
and though
for only a moment
or so
there was one
whose love
was true. . .

 

 

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