I like to bring up as nearly as I can his intense exaltation.

It _had_ been a beautiful day.

And now, as he looked aloft, walking with an automatic precision, his eyes must have beheld glorious vistas, in which he rode a chariot of triumph at the head of a splendid procession, while his ears rang with chaste tributes to his worth trumpeted by outriding heralds.

And the good earth was firm beneath his tread, stretching broadly off for him to walk upon and behold his apotheosis.
I cannot wonder that he stepped high, nor can I find it in my heart to begrudge him his day.

Cunningly had he clutched a few golden moments from the hoard that Fate, the niggard, guards from us so jealously.