I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had sung <br /> Of the sweet years, the dear and wish'd-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.'<br /><br />Elizabeth Barrett Browning<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnets-from-the-portuguese-i/
