on the death of a poet

One told me, Heracleitus, of thy death
and brought me to tears,
and I remembered how often
we two in talking put the sun to rest.
Thou, methinks, Halicarnasian friend,
art ashes long and long ago; but thy nightingales live still,
whereon Hades, snatcher of all things, shall not lay his hand.

Callimachus

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