<h2>I</h2>
<p>I thought once how Theocritus had sung<br/>
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-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.”</p>
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