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
It lies in me to recognize,
Thy questionings are vain.

VII

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

VIII

– Unanswered, 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.