Sonnets from the Portuguese i

I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had sung

Of the sweet years, the dear and wishd-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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