I held that space was an apparition of God, and that soul was a
projection of the character of God; and when he called me his sweet
metaphysician, I called him my immortal materialist. And so we loved and
were happy; and I forgave him his materialism because of his tremendous
work in the world, performed without thought of soul-gain thereby, and
because of his so exceeding modesty of spirit that prevented him from
having pride and regal consciousness of himself and his soul.

But he had pride. How could he have been an eagle and not have pride?
His contention was that it was finer for a finite mortal speck of life
to feel Godlike, than for a god to feel godlike; and so it was that he
exalted what he deemed his mortality. He was fond of quoting a fragment
from a certain poem. He had never seen the whole poem, and he had tried
vainly to learn its authorship. I here give the fragment, not alone
because he loved it, but because it epitomized the paradox that he was
in the spirit of him, and his conception of his spirit. For how can a
man, with thrilling, and burning, and exaltation, recite the following
and still be mere mortal earth, a bit of fugitive force, an evanescent
form? Here it is:

"Joy upon joy and gain upon gain
Are the destined rights of my birth,
And I shout the praise of my endless days
To the echoing edge of the earth.
Though I suffer all deaths that a man can die
To the uttermost end of time,
I have deep-drained this, my cup of bliss,
In every age and clime--