IThere 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.
