Heraclitus

 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 grey ashes, long, long ago at rest,
 Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;
 For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

William (Johnson) Cory

Analysis of this poem by Wondering Minstrels