y the world is
made and is being made every morning. The true lover of nature is
touched with a kind of cosmic family pride every time he looks up from
his work--sees the night and morning, still and splendid, hanging over
him. Probably if there were another universe than this one, to go and
visit in, or if there were an extra Creator we could go to--some of
us--and boast about the one we have, it would afford infinite relief
among many classes of people--especially poets.

The most common sign that poetry, real poetry, exists in the modern
human heart is the pride that people are taking in the world. The
typical modern man, whatever may be said or not said of his religion,
of his attitude toward the maker of the world, has regular and almost
daily habits of being proud of the world.

In the twentieth century the best way for a man to worship God is
going to be to realize his own nature, to recognize what he is for,
and be a god, too. We believe to-day that the best recognition of God
consists in recognizing the fact that he is not a mere God who does
divine things himself, but a God who can make others do them.

Looked at from the point of view of a mere God who does divine things
himself, an earthquake, for instance, may be called a rather feeble
affair, a slight jar to a ball going ---- miles an hour--a Creator
could do little less, if He gave a bare thought to it--but when I
waked a few mornings ago and felt myself swinging in my own house as
if it were a hammock, and was told that some men down in Hazardville,
Connecticut, had managed to shake the planet like that, with some
gunpowder they had made, I felt a new respect for Messrs. ---- and Co.
I was proud of man, my brother. Does he not shake loose the Force of
Gravity--make the very hand of God to tremble? To his thoughts the
very hills, with their hearts of stone, make soft responses--when he
thinks them.

The Corliss engine of Machinery Hall in '76, under its sky of iron and
glass, is remembered by many people the day they saw it first as one
of the great experiences of life. Like some vast, Titanic spirit, soul
of a thousand, thousand wheels, it stood to some of us, in its mighty
silence there, and wrought miracles. To one twelve-year-old boy, at
least, the thought of the hour he spent with that engine first is a
thought he sings and prays with to this day. His lips trembled before
it. He sought to hide himself in its presence. Why had no one ever
taught