'What is your grief? now tell me, sweet,
That I may grieve,' my sister said; 10
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. 20
'So yesterday I read the acts
Of Hector and each clangorous king
With wrathful great Aeacides:—
Old Homer leaves a sting.'
The comely face looked up again,
The deft hand lingered on the thread:
'Sweet, tell me what is Homer's sting,
Old Homer's sting?' she said.
'He stirs my sluggish pulse like wine,
He melts me like the wind of spice, 30
Strong as strong Ajax' red right hand,
And grand like Juno's eyes.
'I cannot melt the sons of men,
I cannot fire and tempest-toss:—
Besides, those days were golden days,
Whilst these are days of dross.'
She laughed a feminine low laugh,
Yet did not stay her dexterous hand:
'Now tell me of those days,' she said,
'When time ran golden sand.' 40
'Then men were men of might and right,
Sheer might, at least, and weighty swords;
Then men in open blood and fire,
Bore witness to their words,
'Crest-rearing kings with whistling spears;
But if these shivered in the shock
They wrenched up hundred-rooted trees,
Or hurled the effacing rock.