THEY told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead; They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. I wept as I remembered, how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky. And now that thou art lying my dear old Carian guest, A handful of gray ashes, long, long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake, For Death he taketh all away, but these he can not take. |