Sonnet I

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.

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