The Lowest Room Christina Rossetti

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Like flowers sequestered from the sun
         And wind of summer, day by day
I dwindled paler, whilst my hair
         Showed the first tinge of grey.

"Oh, what is life, that we should live?
         Or what is death, that we must die?
A bursting bubble is our life:
                 I also, what am I?"

"What is your grief? now tell me, sweet,
         That I may grieve," my sister said;
And stayed a white embroidering hand
                 And raised a golden head:

Her tresses showed a richer mass,
         Her eyes looked softer than my own,
Her figure had a statelier height,
                 Her voice a tenderer tone.

"Some must be second and not first;
         All cannot be the first of all:
Is not this, too, but vanity?
         I stumble like to fall.

"So yesterday I read the acts
         Of Hector and each clangorous king
With wrathful great Æacides:--
                 Old Homer leaves a sting."