  A HUNDRED years from now, dear heart, We will not care at all. It will not matter then a whit, The honey or the gall. The summer days that we have known Will all forgotten be and flown; The garden will be overgrown Where now the roses fall. A hundred years from now, dear heart, We will not mind the pain. The throbbing crimson tide of life Will not have left a stain. The song we sing together, dear, The dream we dream together here, Will mean no more than means a tear Amid a summer rain. A hundred years from now, dear heart, The grief will all be o’er; The sea of care will surge in vain Upon a careless shore. Here at the parting of the way: We will be wineless then as they, And will not mind it more. A hundred years from now, dear heart, We’ll neither know nor care What came of all life’s bitterness Or followed love’s despair. Then fill the glasses up again And kiss me through the rose-leaf rain; We’ll build one castle more in Spain, And dream one more dream there. |
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