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.
 

,h 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.

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