Homages, in memoriam Phillip Heseltine

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.

The rustling nightfall strews my gown with roses,
And wine-flushed petals bring forgetfulness
[Of shadow after shadow striding past]1.
I arise with the stars exultantly 
and follow the sweep of the moon 
along the hushing stream, where no birds wake. 
[Only the far-drawn sigh of wary voices 
whispering: farewell.]2

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