In the shadow of the setting sun,
Where whispers of the past are spun,
Yeats rests upon the silent shore,
His voice to echo nevermore.
The winds carry his gentle rhyme,
Through the tapestry of time,
A beacon in the darkened night,
Guiding souls with words of light.
His dreams now sail the endless skies,
Where mortal bounds no longer tie,
A symphony of stars and dreams,
In celestial realms, forever streams.
Yet here on earth, his spirit stays,
In verses carved through endless days,
A poet’s soul, forever free,
In lines of love and mystery.