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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=369190" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Of a Woman, Dead Young</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=369190" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">If she had been beautiful, even,<br>Or wiser than women about her,<br>Or had moved with a certain defiance;<br>If she had had sons at her sides,<br>And she with her hands on their shoulders,<br>Sons, to make troubled the Gods-<br>But where was there wonder in her?<br>What had she, better or eviler,<br>Whose days were a pattering of peas<br>From the pod to the bowl in her lap?</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=369190" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">That the pine tree is blasted by lightning,<br>And the bowlder split raw from the mountain,<br>And the river dried short in its rushing-<br>That I can know, and be humble.<br>But that They who have trodden the stars<br>Should turn from Their echoing highway<br>To trample a daisy, unnoticed<br>In a meadow of small, open flowers-<br>Where is Their triumph in that?<br>Where is Their pride, and Their vengeance?</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Dorothy+Parker">Dorothy Parker</a></strong></div>

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