'To me our days seem pleasant days, Our home a haven of pure content; 150 Forgive me if I said too much, So much more than I meant. 'Homer, tho' greater than his gods, With rough-hewn virtues was sufficed And rough-hewn men: but what are such To us who learn of Christ?' The much-moved pathos of her voice, Her almost tearful eyes, her cheek Grown pale, confessed the strength of love Which only made her speak: 160 For mild she was, of few soft words, Most gentle, easy to be led, Content to listen when I spoke And reverence what I said; I elder sister by six years; Not half so glad, or wise, or good: Her words rebuked my secret self And shamed me where I stood. She never guessed her words reproved A silent envy nursed within, 170 A selfish, souring discontent Pride-born, the devil's sin. I smiled, half bitter, half in jest: 'The wisest man of all the wise Left for his summary of life "Vanity of vanities." 'Beneath the sun there's nothing new: Men flow, men ebb, mankind flows on: If I am wearied of my life, Why so was Solomon. 180 'Vanity of vanities he preached Of all he found, of all he sought: Vanity of vanities, the gist Of all the words he taught. 'This in the wisdom of the world, In Homer's page, in all, we find: As the sea is not filled, so yearns Man's universal mind. 'This Homer felt, who gave his men With glory but a transient state: 190 His very Jove could not reverse Irrevocable fate. 'Uncertain all their lot save this-- Who wins must lose, who lives must die: All trodden out into the dark Alike, all vanity.' She scarcely answered when I paused, But rather to herself said: 'One Is here,' low-voiced and loving, 'Yea, Greater than Solomon.' 200 So both were silent, she and I: She laid her work aside, and went Into the garden-walks, like spring, All gracious with content, A little graver than her wont, Because her words had fretted me; Not warbling quite her merriest tune Bird-like from tree to tree. I chose a book to read and dream: Yet half the while with furtive eyes 210 Marked how she made her choice of flowers Intuitively wise, And ranged them with instinctive taste Which all my books had failed to teach; Fresh rose herself, and daintier Than blossom of the peach. By birthright higher than myself, Tho' nestling of the self-same nest: No fault of hers, no fault of mine, But stubborn to digest. 220 I watched her, till my book unmarked Slid noiseless to the velvet floor; Till all the opulent summer-world Looked poorer than before.