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Poem	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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