If she had been beautiful, even
Or wiser than women about her
Or had moved with a certain defiance
If she had had sons at her sides
And she with her hands on their shoulders
Sons, to make troubled the Gods
But where was there wonder in her?
What had she, better or eviler
Whose days were a pattering of peas
From the pod to the bowl in her lap?

That the pine tree is blasted by lightning
And the bowlder split raw from the mountain
And the river dried short in its rushing
That I can know, and be humble
But that They who have trodden the stars
Should turn from Their echoing highway
To trample a daisy, unnoticed
In a meadow of small, open flowers
Where is Their triumph in that?
Where is Their pride, and Their vengeance?