(Note: I borrowed the cadence from "To Be Carved on a Stone at Ballylee." (http://www.infoplease.com/t/lit/robartes/carved.html))

Though the poet Yeats lies dead,
This is how his story read.
While alive, he wrote great poems
And he called his Ireland home.
Master of the odd and arcane,
Growing older was his bane.
He didn't wed till fifty-one,
But couldn't marry his Maud Gonne.
He wrote verses all his life;
Georgie Hyde-Lee was his wife.
Most religion he disdained,
Spiritual interest wasn't feigned.
When he died at seventy-four
He left words cast at his core.
The final lines of one great verse
Accompanied him like a curse:

Cast a cold Eye
On Life, on Death.
Horseman, pass by.