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.”