TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon1 cannot hear the falconer；
Things fall apart； the centre cannot hold；
Mere2 anarchy3 is loosed upon the world，
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed， and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence4 is drowned；
The best lack all conviction， while the worst
Are full of passionate5 intensity6.
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 thighs7， while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again； but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony8 sleep
Were vexed9 to nightmare by a rocking cradle，
And what rough beast， its hour come round at last，
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born？
W.B. Yeats