H. P. Grice on W. J. Cory

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 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,          5 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.