In the stillness of the shadowed eve,
Where moonlight dances on silent streams,
A voice once fervent now softly weaves,
Through the twilight’s gentle, whispered dreams.

The echoes of his fiery words remain,
In the hearts of those who dared to feel,
A tapestry of passion and pain,
Woven with threads both tender and real.

The night does not go gentle into dark,
But rages with the light of his soul,
A beacon for those who seek the spark,
Of life’s fierce, undying, endless goal.

In the quiet of the mourning dawn,
His legacy breathes in every sigh,
A poet’s spirit never truly gone,
Beneath the vast, eternal sky.