I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had sung   Of the sweet years, the dear and wish'd-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.'