In the quiet of the evening’s light,
A poet’s spirit took its flight,
W.B. Yeats, whose words did weave
A tapestry of dreams, now leaves.

Through verses deep and soaring high,
He painted scenes beneath the sky,
Of love, of loss, of myth and lore,
His voice, a song, forevermore.

The lake isle, the golden birds,
He captured life in vibrant words,
And though he’s gone, his echoes stay,
In hearts and minds, they softly play.

O Yeats, your legacy endures,
Your poetry, a timeless cure,
For those who seek in written lines,
The beauty of the ancient times.