Poem by 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 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
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.

1. The Supplanter
2. Afternoon Service at Mellstock
3. At the Word ‘Farewell’
4. Tragedian to Tragedienne
5. The Three Tall Men

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