The Death of Heraclitus - Poem by Callimachus
I hear, O friend, the fatal news
Of Heraclitus death.
A sudden tear my cheek bedews,
And sighs suppress my breath.
For I must often call to mind,
How from the crowd we run;
And how to jesting still inclin'd,
We sported in the sun.
Alas! he's gone, and part we must,
And repartee's no more;
But, tho' my friend be sunk in dust,
His muse shall ever soar.
The dart of death shall never fly
To stop her waving wings;
Like Philomel she mounts on high
And still, like her, she sings.
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