One Hundred Years

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. . .