From “Of A Woman, Dead Young”:

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?

Pathfinder: Their Triumph, Their Pride, Their Vengeance

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