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-obeyedVacant of feeling he.
The Matron mildly asks—A throb in every word—“Our clay-made creatures, lord,How fare they in their mortal tasksUpon Earth’s bounded bord?
“The fate of those I bear,Dear lord, pray turn and view,And notify me true;Shapings that eyelessly I dareMaybe I would undo.
“Sometimes from lairs of lifeMethinks 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 painDoth my clear substance recognize,I read thy realms in vain.
“World-weaver! what is Grief?And what are Right, and Wrong,And Feeling, that belongTo 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 sighsOn Alpine height or Polar peakWhen the night tempests rise.
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