 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
DOOM AND SHE
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 lifeMethinks I catch a groan,
Or multitudinous moan,
As though I had schemed a world of strife,
Working by touch alone.”
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VI
“World-weaver!” he replies,“I scan all thy domain;
But since nor joy nor pain
It lies in me to recognize,
Thy questionings are vain.
VII
“World-weaver! what is Grief?And what are Right, and Wrong,
And Feeling, that belong
To creatures all who owe thee fief?
Why is Weak worse than Strong?” . . .
VIII
—Unanswered, 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.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |