User:WillowW
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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.

