The second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre
cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The
blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence
is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full
of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are
those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles
my sight:somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and
the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving
its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant
desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty
centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards
Bethlehem to be born?
William Butler Yeats
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