Upon a winter’s night so cold,
The poet’s quill was laid to rest,
In whispers frail his story told,
Of dreams and thoughts he once expressed.

The stars above did softly mourn,
As shadows danced upon the ground,
His verses, like a rose, unthorned,
In silent echoes, they resound.

The world became a canvas grey,
His absence marked by quiet tears,
Yet in his words, forever stay,
The essence of his fleeting years.

Though Yeats has left this earthly plane,
His spirit lingers in the air,
Through every line, his soul remains,
A legacy beyond compare.