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: a waste of desert
sand; 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 Wind 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?
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