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-- "The froth of Pride, the tang of Power, The sweet of Womanhood! I drain the lees upon my knees, For oh, the draught is good; I drink to Life, I drink to Death, And smack my lips with song, For when I die, another 'I' shall pass the cup along.
"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 dearest woes, From the first faint cry of the newborn To the rack of the woman's throes.
"Packed with the pulse of an unborn race, Torn with a world's desire, The surging flood of my wild young blood Would quench the judgment fire.
I am Man, Man, Man, from the tingling flesh To the dust of my earthly goal, From the nestling gloom of the pregnant womb To the sheen of my naked soul.
Bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh The whole world leaps to my will, And the unslaked thirst of an Eden cursed Shall harrow the earth for its fill.
Almighty God, when I drain life's glass 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.