In the quiet whisper of the night,The world felt a subtle shiver,As stars dimmed their golden light,And the moon paused in its silver river.The winds carried a solemn tune,Through ancient trees and shadowed glades,A mournful song beneath the moon,Where time and memory softly fades.His words, like echoes, linger still,In the hearts of those who dream,A poet’s voice, a quill’s gentle thrill,Across the ages, a timeless stream.Yet in his death, a silence blooms,A sacred space of tender grace,Where Yeats’ spirit gently looms,In the quiet corners of this earthly place.