Battle of Knits

Random Poem

• I (Elizabeth Barrett Browning)
  
  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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