Yeats's Grave

He lies where he determined to,

Rescued from the hospitable French 

Who would have gladly kept his bones –

Those long white poet's bones of his –

And claimed him, as their wine-warm shores

Have claimed so many Irish men.

This one came home, though –

To the home of his child's heart,

Where fairies whispered from the mountaintop

And came by night to kindle him in dreams.

This one came home, to say a few last words,

In the form of a carving on a plain stone.

"Horseman," says the stone, "pass by,"

And speaks of the virtue of a cold eye –

But what stone-graven heart could be 

Cold in the grip of the reverie

That comes when facing a hero's tomb?

And what fool horse would dare presume 

To pass this dear and sainted place

With no pause of thanks to the human race?