I <br /> <br />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.'<br /><br />Elizabeth Barrett Browning<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-01-i-thought-once-how-theocritus-had-sung/
