While that last piece was read at Santayana‘s death, I’m slightly more enamoured with a piece he wrote on the death of a friend, simply entitled “To W.P.“.
It’s not too long, so you could go read the whole thing. Here are two bits that particularly resonate with parts of my personal philosophy:
Another, if I would, I could not find,
And I am grown much older in a day.
But yet I treasure in my memory
Your gift of charity, your mellow ease,
And the dear honour of your amity;
For these once mine, my life is rich with these.
And I scarce know which part may greater be,–
What I keep of you, or you rob of me.
“I am grown much older in a day”–that kills me.
And, of course, the ending sentiment of the snippet, which captures both the transient immortality of living on in other, and the sadness at what is lost…
And though the after world will never hear
The happy name of one so gently true,
Nor chronicles write large this fatal year,
Yet we who loved you, though we be but few,
Keep you in whatsoe’er is good, and rear
In our weak virtues monuments to you.
Yeah, I’ve got nothing to add to that.
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