"Or, look again, dim Dian's face Gleamed perfect through the attendant night: Were such not better than those holes Amid that waste of white? "A shame it is, our aimless life; I rather from my heart would feed From silver dish in gilded stall With wheat and wine the steed-- "The faithful steed that bore my lord In safety through the hostile land, The faithful steed that arched his neck To fondle with my hand." Her needle erred; a moment's pause, A moment's patience, all was well. Then she: "But just suppose the horse, Suppose the rider fell? "Then captive in an alien house, Hungering on exile's bitter bread,-- They happy, they who won the lot Of sacrifice," she said. Speaking she faltered, while her look Showed forth her passion like a glass: With hand suspended, kindling eye, Flushed cheek, how fair she was! "Ah well, be those the days of dross; This, if you will, the age of gold: Yet had those days a spark of warmth, While these are somewhat cold-- "Are somewhat mean and cold and slow, Are stunted from heroic growth: We gain but little when we prove The worthlessness of both." "But life is in our hands," she said; "In our own hands for gain or loss: Shall not the Sevenfold Sacred Fire Suffice to purge our dross? "Too short a century of dreams, One day of work sufficient length: Why should not you, why should not I, Attain heroic strength? "Our life is given us as a blank, Ourselves must make it blest or curst: Who dooms me I shall only be The second, not the first? "Learn from old Homer, if you will, Such wisdom as his books have said: In one the acts of Ajax shine, In one of Diomed. "Honoured all heroes whose high deeds Through life, through death, enlarge their span Only Achilles in his rage And sloth is less than man." "Achilles only less than man? He less than man who, half a god, Discomfited all Greece with rest, Cowed Ilion with a nod? "He offered vengeance, lifelong grief To one dear ghost, uncounted price: Beasts, Trojans, adverse gods, himself, Heaped up the sacrifice. "Self-immolated to his friend, Shrined in world's wonder, Homer's page, Is this the man, the less than men Of this degenerate age?" "Gross from his acorns, tusky boar Does memorable acts like his; So for her snared offended young Bleeds the swart lioness." But here she paused; our eyes had met, And I was whitening with the jeer; She rose: "I went too far," she said; Spoke low: "Forgive me, dear. "To me our days seem pleasant days, Our home a haven of pure content; Forgive me if I said too much, So much more than I meant.