Forget Strauss with that encore look in his eye and his tiresome industry: more than five hundred finished compositions! He even wrote a polka for his mother. That alone is enough to make me flee the past, evacuate its temples, and walk alone under the stars down these dark paths strewn with acorns, feeling nothing but the crisp October air, the swing of my arms and the rhythm of my stepping— a man of the present who has forgotten every composer, every great battle, just me, a thin reed blowing in the night.
Billy Collins, Sailing Alone Around the Room, “Some Final Words.” J. R. R. Tolkien put (I think) the same point somewhat differently:
Kings made tombs more splendid than houses of the living, and counted old names in the rolls of their descent dearer than the names of sons. Childless lords sat in aged halls musing on heraldry; in secret chambers withered men compounded strong elixirs, or in high cold towers asked questions of the stars. And the last king of the line of Anárion had no heir.