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.