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.