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.
I was taught this at school in the late 1930's, but the penultimate line was rendered as
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I was taught; 'sweet rememberances' instead of 'pleasant voices'.