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