Those dear tired eyes. He toiled as few men ever toiled, and all his
lifetime he toiled for others. That was the measure of his manhood. He
was a humanist and a lover. And he, with his incarnate spirit of battle,
his gladiator body and his eagle spirit--he was as gentle and tender to
me as a poet. He was a poet. A singer in deeds. And all his life he sang
the song of man. And he did it out of sheer love of man, and for man he
gave his life and was crucified.

And all this he did with no hope of future reward. In his conception of
things there was no future life. He, who fairly burnt with immortality,
denied himself immortality--such was the paradox of him. He, so warm
in spirit, was dominated by that cold and forbidding philosophy,
materialistic monism. I used to refute him by telling him that I
measured his immortality by the wings of his soul, and that I should
have to live endless aeons in order to achieve the full measurement.
Whereat he would laugh, and his arms would leap out to me, and he would
call me his sweet metaphysician; and the tiredness would pass out of his
eyes, and into them would flood the happy love-light that was in itself
a new and sufficient advertisement of his immortality.

Also, he used to call me his dualist, and he would explain how Kant, by
means of pure reason, had abolished reason, in order to worship God. And
he drew the parallel and included me guilty of a similar act. And when I
pleaded guilty, but defended the act as highly rational, he but pressed
me closer and laughed as only one of God's own lovers could laugh. I
was wont to deny that heredity and environment could explain his own
originality and genius, any more than could the cold groping finger of
science catch and analyze and classify that elusive essence that lurked
in the constitution of life itself.