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."
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."
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