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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--Elizabeth Barrett Browning |
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last updated.....1 January 2001 |