Amidst the Irish hills, his spirit wanders,Where words once danced in twilight’s gentle glow,The echoes of his voice, like tender thunder,Weave through the valleys, where the wild roses grow.In dreams, he speaks of love and ancient lore,Of mystic lands and souls that yearn for flight,His verses, a bridge to the evermore,Guiding lost hearts through the shadowed night.Beneath the stars, the poet’s legacy lingers,A tapestry of truth and whispered sighs,His quill, a brush that paints with gentle fingers,The beauty of a world beyond our eyes.Eternal now, in timeless fields he rests,His words, a symphony of life and death,In every line, the heartbeat of his quests,Resonating with the pulse of every breath.