Of all its rainbow gleams,
The hapless plight of eternal night
Shall be none too long for my dreams.

"The man you drove from Eden's grove
Was I, my Lord, was I,
And I shall be there when the earth and the air
Are rent from sea to sky;
For it is my world, my gorgeous world,
The world of my dear delight,
From the brightest gleam of the Arctic stream
To the dusk of my own love-night."

Ernest always overworked. His wonderful constitution kept him up; but
even that constitution could not keep the tired look out of his eyes.
His dear, tired eyes! He never slept more than four and one-half hours
a night; yet he never found time to do all the work he wanted to do.
He never ceased from his activities as a propagandist, and was always
scheduled long in advance for lectures to workingmen's organizations.
Then there was the campaign. He did a man's full work in that alone.
With the suppression of the socialist publishing houses, his meagre
royalties ceased, and he was hard-put to make a living; for he had to
make a living in addition to all his other labor. He did a great deal
of translating for the magazines on scientific and philosophic subjects;
and, coming home late at night, worn out from the strain of the
campaign, he would plunge into his translating and toil on well into the
morning hours. And in addition to everything, there was his studying.
To the day of his death he kept up his studies, and he studied
prodigiously.