Doom and She

I

THERE dwells a mighty pair— Slow, statuesque, intense— Amid the vague Immense: None can their chronicle declare, Nor why they be, nor whence.

II

Mother of all things made, Matchless in artistry, Unlit with sight is she.— And though her ever well-obeyed Vacant of feeling he.

III

The Matron mildly asks— A throb in every word— “Our clay-made creatures, lord, How fare they in their mortal tasks Upon Earth’s bounded bord?

IV

“The fate of those I bear, Dear lord, pray turn and view, And notify me true; Shapings that eyelessly I dare Maybe I would undo.

V

“Sometimes from lairs of life Methinks I catch a groan, Or multitudinous moan, As though I had schemed a world of strife, Working by touch alone.”

VI

“World-weaver!” he replies, “I scan all thy domain; But since nor joy nor pain Doth my clear substance recognize, I read thy realms in vain.

VII

“World-weaver! what is Grief? And what are Right, and Wrong, And Feeling, that belong To creatures all who owe thee fief? What worse is Weak than Strong?” . . .

VIII

—Unlightened, curious, meek, She broods in sad surmise . . . —Some say they have heard her sighs On Alpine height or Polar peak When the night tempests rise.