Heraclitus

By William Cory (1823-1892)

William Cory is perhaps more known as a schoolteacher than a poet. He was an assistant headmaster at Eton College, a prestigious english boarding school. After retiring to a family estate, he renewed his interest in poetry, and published the majority of his work.

"Heraclitus"

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;
or Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

“thy nightingales, awake”

I’m not going to lie, the moment I saw a poem titled Heraclitus I thought, “Yea, I’m probably going to pick that one.” Heraclitus was an ancient greek philosopher, and here are the three things you need to know about him. First, the vast majority of his writings are lost time time, only fragments survive. Second, he thought that most fundamental thing in the world was change. He claimed that we are becoming, not being. Third, it was him who said “You can’t step in the same river twice,” not Pocahontas.

So, with all of that in mind, I think this poem is both a beautiful tribute to the man and a firm rejection of the philosophy. You don’t “tire the sun with talking” unless you care deeply for someone, but you also don’t do it if you agree with everything they say. If you agree, you shake hands and go to bed. Disagreements keep you up at night. Then, he makes the point that death has taken everything but Heraclitus’ writing, his “pleasant voices.” By dying, Heraclitus has finished becoming. In death, he is the same now as he was “long long ago.” And although his writing survives death, he can no longer say anything new. According to the poem, death himself disproved Heraclitus.

It warms my heart that such sincere admiration and utter rejection can coexist first in a person then in a poem.