Analysis of 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-obeyed
   Vacant of feeling he.

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?

"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.

"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."

"World-weaver!&quo t; he replies,
   "I scan all thy domain;
   But since nor joy nor pain
Doth my clear substance recognize,
   I read thy realms in vain.

"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?" . . .

--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.