I thought once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:

And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me.Straightway I was 'ware, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, -"Guess now who holds thee!" -

"Death," I said, But, there, The silver answer rang, "Not death, but Love."