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