whose music was to fall at her door
“... in folds of golden fulness”
haunted her like “an odor from Dreamland sent.”
She pondered on
“... how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,”
but she dared not dream that the “mystic Shape” that drew her backward, and whose voice spoke “in mastery,” had come to lead her,—not to Death, but Love.