In the quiet whisper of the night,
When the stars gleam soft and bright,
Yeats’ spirit takes its flight,
Into realms beyond our sight.
His words, a melody that lingers,
Written with delicate fingers,
Now rest in the hands of time,
Echoes in poetic rhyme.
The earth mourns a bard so grand,
Whose verses sweep like golden sand,
Through the ages, they will flow,
In hearts and minds, they grow.
Yet in his death, thereâs no end,
For his legacy will transcend,
Through the ages, young and old,
Yeats’ stories will be told.