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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