SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE (I)

by: Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

      THOUGHT once how Theocritus had sung
      Of the sweet years, the dear and wish'd-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 ran--'Not Death, but Love.'

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