So in the Libyan fable it is told That once an eagle, stricken with a dart, Said, when he saw the fashion of the shaft: With our own feathers, not by others' hands, Are we now smitten.
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O Death the Healer, scorn thou not, I pray, To come to me: of cureless ills thou art The one physician. Pain lays not its touch Upon a corpse.
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I gave them hope, and so turned away their eyes from death
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In the sinews of the dead there is no blood.
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Time cleanses what it touches over time.
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