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.'