C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

John Bennett (1865–1956)

A HUNDRED years from now, dear heart,

We shall 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 shall not mind the pain;

The throbbing crimson tide of life

Will not have left a stain.

The song we sing together, dear,

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.

These glasses we turn down to-day

Here at the parting of the way—

We shall be wineless then as they,

And shall 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.