old order, and how utterly regardless of the cost of its establishment a new order is. The Universe is immoral, and no sooner has a morality of any order established itself than the Universe begins to undo it. To me the centuries of Christendom are only as a moment of time which has ended, and in my heart I believe "Terrific war Will burst the chrysalis, the Christendom, That hangs in rags about the eager soul, Already wing'd and rich with crimson stains, With sulphur plumes and violet, green and gold, Psyche at last, pure Matter of itself!" I have repeatedly attempted to speak this that I am writing, and have always failed, coming out of it in a dumb rage. It is true that no man, great or small, was ever so tongue-tied as I am; but it is also true that the people one talks with who are consciously interested in the Universe are almost always either theologians or metaphysicians, men of dogma and system who can neither think nor imagine beyond their rubrics: poetry to them is on the other side of the hedge; it may be a vineyard, but they are tethered in their own plot of thistles, and very well satisfied too. I have no system; I have no dogma: it is a new poetry I bring. For me there is nothing immaterial; for me everything matters; for me there is nothing behind phenomena: the very "thing in itself" is phenomenon; phenomena _are_ the Universe. I, doubtless, prefer to drop such words as "phenomenon," such phrases as "thing in itself," specialized out of all meaning, precisely as the Bishop of St. James's and I drop all legends "Of dead men come alive, and signs and shows Of tongues and thunders, cures and stigmata, Which are no mystery but the quaint alarm Of ignorance, that harnessed vision against The things that be in sterile dreams of spirit, As banal, venomous-moral, hard and fast As Matter is mysterious, fluent, pure, Filling the Universe with miracle, Filling and being the Universe itself."