To little men, gods send little things.

Big book, a big bore.

More lightly do his sorrows press upon a man, when to a friend or fellow traveller he tells his griefs.

I wept as I remembered how often you and I had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

Someone spoke of your death, Heraclitus. It brought me Tears, and I remembered how often together We ran the sun down with talk . . . somewhere You've long been dust, my Halicarnassian friend. But your Nightingales live on. Though the Death world Claws at everything, it will not touch them.

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.

A good man never dies.