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.