Under bare Ben Bulben’s head
In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.
An ancestor was rector there
Long years ago, a church stands near,
By the road an ancient cross.
No marble, no conventional phrase;
On limestone quarried near the spot
By his command these words are cut:
Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman pass by!

Yeats’s (or somebody’s, there’s some controversy) body was moved here from Roquebrune in the South of France. Apparently he was never photographed smiling, possibly because he didn’t have any teeth.