They told me, Heraclitus, they told me
you were dead,
They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to
I wept as I remember'd 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 grey ashes, long, long ago at rest,
Still are thy pleasent voices, thy nightingales, awake;
For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.