DOOM AND SHE

There dwells a mighty pair -

Slow, statuesque, intense -

Amid the vague Immense:

None can their chronicle declare,

Nor why they be, nor whence.

Mother of all things made,

Matchless in artistry,

Unlit with sight is she. -

And though her ever well-obeyed

Vacant of feeling he.

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?

“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.

“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.”

“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.

“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?”...

— 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.