In the quiet shadows of an Irish dawn,
Where whispers of the past are gently drawn,
The echoes of Yeats still softly sing,
Of dreams and myths, of sorrow’s wing.

Beneath the ancient oaks he lay,
His words like leaves whispered away,
A poet’s heart that spoke of lore,
Now silent, but forever more.

The lakes and hills remember well,
The tales of which his verses tell,
Of faeries, love, and mystic rites,
Now echoing in the starry nights.

Though Yeats has left this mortal plane,
His spirit walks through every lane,
In every verse, in every rhyme,
His legacy defies all time.