The quiet of the evening falls,
A poet’s voice now gently fades,
Across the fields and ancient walls,
His spirit wanders through the glades.

With pen in hand, he wrote of earth,
Of bog and soil, of life and death,
His words, a testament of worth,
Now lingering with every breath.

The whisper of the autumn leaves,
Reminds us of his tender verse,
In every line, one still perceives,
The beauty of a universe.

Though gone, his legacy remains,
In hearts and books, his essence stays,
Seamus Heaney’s timeless strains,
Will echo through the endless days.