I Thought Once How Theocritus Had Sung

I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had sungOf the sweet years, the dear and wished for years,Who each one in a gracious hand appearsTo 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 flungA shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,So weeping, how a mystic Shape did moveBehind 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."