Under the Irish sky where whispers grow,
A gentle voice once danced with grace,
With every word, he sowed the fields,
In verses rich, we find his trace.

His pen, a plow, tilled the human heart,
Unearthing truths from ancient loam,
In every stanza, a world apart,
His legacy, a poet’s home.

The quiet strength of his gentle hand,
Crafted worlds where dreams abide,
From peat to paper, he forged a land,
In every line, his spirit resides.

Though silence now holds his final breath,
His words endure, an endless sea,
In every echo, beyond his death,
His poetry, a timeless decree.