I 

   There dwells a mighty pair - 
   Slow, statuesque, intense - 
   Amid the vague Immense: 
None can their chronicle declare, 
   Nor why they be, nor whence. 

,h 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. 

Added: Apr 1 2005 | Viewed: 519 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Thomas Hardy
Poem: Doom and She

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