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 answеr rang, "Not death, but Love."