Now, the language of poetry is simpler than that of prose; as anyone can see who has read what the old-fashioned protestant used to call confidently “his” Bible.  And, being simpler, it is also truer; and, being truer, it is also fiercer.  And, for most of the infamies of our time, there is really nothing plain enough, except the plain language of poetry.  Take, let us say, the ease of the recent railway disaster, and the acquittal of the capitalists’ interest.  It is not a scientific problem for us to investigate.  It is a crime committed before our eyes; committed, perhaps, by blind men or maniacs, or men hypnotised, or men in some other ways unconscious; but committed in broad daylight, so that the corpse is bleeding on our door-step.  Good lives were lost, because good lives do not pay; and bad coals do pay.  It seems simply impossible to get any other meaning out of the matter except that.  And, if in human history there be anything simple and anything horrible, it seems to have been present in this matter.  If, even after some study and understanding of the old religious passions which were the resurrection of Europe, we cannot endure the extreme infamy of witches and heretics literally burned alive—­well, the people in this affair were quite as literally burned alive.  If, when we have really tried to extend our charity beyond the borders of personal sympathy, to all the complexities of class and creed, we still feel something insolent about the triumphant and acquitted man who is in the wrong, here the men who are in the wrong are triumphant and acquitted.  It is no subject for science.  It is a subject for poetry.  But for poetry of a terrible sort.