ere is poetry in it, but that the poetry which the common people have already found there, has a right to be there. We have the fact. It is the theory to put with the fact which concerns u

t does not seem to mak

in it because it is an

an who creates the machine-the inventor, and (2)

ve not been able to say anything beautiful about it than from the poets of twenty centuries. The machine frees a hundred thousand men and smokes. The poet writes a thousand lines on freedom and has his bust in Westminster Abbey. The blacks in America were freed by Abraham Lincoln and the cotton gin. The real argument for unity-the argument against secession-was the locomotive. No one can fight the locomotive very long. It makes the world over into one world whether it wants to be one world or not. China is being conquered by steamships. It cannot be said that the idea of unity is a new one. Seers and poets have made poetry ou

bert Browning's poetry where Browning would have made but one, but it does not follow that because the loom has freed women for beauty that the loom is beautiful, or that it is a fit theme for poetry." "Besides"-breaks in the

his, upon how much of the universe he will let into it. If he is afraid of the universe if he only lets his thoughts and passions live in a very little of it, he is apt to assume that if a beautiful thing rises into the sublime and immeasurable-suggests boundless ideas-the beauty is blurred out of it. It is something-there is no denying that it is s

with our arts, or our theories of art, or that we have anything to do with it, is an essentially modern discovery. The actual experience of infinity-that is, the experience of being infinite (comparatively

inity shall be turned out. Sometimes it is called one and sometimes the other. If a man is going to be infinite or eternal it makes little difference which. It is merely a matter of form whether one is everywhere a few years, or anywhere forever. A sewing machine is as much

not see any poetry in it, because, according to our traditions poetry has fixed bo

ould not help feeling that the Infinite was over them. Worship consisted in propitiating it, poetry in helping people to forget it. With the exception of Job,

make it as much like the earth as possible-a kind of raised platform which was less dreadful and more familiar and homelike and answered the same general purpose.

space to us. A new poetry lifts away the ceilings of our dreams. The old sky, with its little tent of stars, its film of flame and darkness burning over us, has floated to the past. The twentieth century-the home of the

ew heaven? The infinite cave of it, scooped out at last over our little naked, foolish lives, our running-about philosophies, our religions, and our governments

ts itself to the new heaven, lifts up days out of nights to It, digs wells for winds under It, lights darkness with falling water, makes ice out of vapor, and heat out of cold, draws down Space with engines, makes years out

ver us-the mere hiding place of Death, the awful li

sses the greatest idea that the soul of man can have, namely, the

it makes man think he is infinite, but because it is making him as infinite as he thinks he is. The infinity o