I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had sung br    Of the sweet years, the dear and wish'd-for years, br    Who each one in a gracious hand appears br To bear a gift for mortals old or young: br And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, br    I saw in gradual vision through my tears br    The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years-- br Those of my own life, who by turns had flung br A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, br    So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move br Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; br    And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, br 'Guess now who holds thee?'--'Death,' I said. But there br    The silver answer rang--'Not Death, but Love.