In the soft whisper of the evening breeze,
His words linger, like echoes in the trees.
A voice now silent, yet forever heard,
In verses woven with the weight of a word.
Stars glimmer softly in the nightâs embrace,
Guiding his spirit to a tranquil place.
A dance of shadows, where dreams entwine,
In the silence, his soul begins to shine.
The world mourns with a gentle sigh,
For the poet whose words will never die.
In every heart, a piece of him remains,
A legacy of love, joy, and pains.
Though time moves on, and days will part,
His poetry beats within each heart.
A timeless song in endless reprise,
In Yeats’ words, his spirit never dies.