I thought once how Theocritus had sung ,
For the sweet years , the dear and wished - for years ,
Who which 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 . '

" Sonnets From The Portuguese I "
--- Elizabeth Barrett Browning
( 1806 - 1861 )