To die like Montesquieu, in the arms of his lover,
An unfinished essay on taste by his side;
Having lived to some purpose,
Learned a little, and cherished the good.
Can we carry our questions with us
Over there, whence they seem to come?
Or will they remain here, gloating like ghouls,
Richer and more powerful than we ever were?
As Hegel said, dying of cholera,
“Only one man ever understood me...
And he didn’t understand me...”
Ask what is human, what is me;
It is the grief, the separation....
How I envy Julius Canus,
Who, condemned to death by Caesar,
Was playing draughts when the executioner came.
Counting the pieces, he smiled at his companion,
“See that you don’t falsely claim after my death that you won,”
Then calmly rose and walked out through the door.
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