The Second Coming
by William Butler Yeats
#plebchain
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 Foster
npub19sg…jsy4
2023-08-21 19:00:22
Author Public Key
npub19sgyxeqmm73lauvservh66qdqmqka8l0n0ze08c98g9s6kpnx52q9sjsy4Published at
2023-08-21 19:00:22Event JSON
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"content": "The Second Coming\nby William Butler Yeats\n\n#plebchain\n\nTurning and turning in the widening gyre \nThe falcon cannot hear the falconer;\nThings fall apart; the centre cannot hold;\nMere anarchy is loosed upon the world,\nThe blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere \nThe ceremony of innocence is drowned;\nThe best lack all conviction, while the worst \nAre full of passionate intensity.\n\n\nSurely some revelation is at hand;\nSurely the Second Coming is at hand. \nThe Second Coming! Hardly are those words out \nWhen a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi\nTroubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert \nA shape with lion body and the head of a man, \nA gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, \nIs moving its slow thighs, while all about it \nReel shadows of the indignant desert birds. \nThe darkness drops again; but now I know \nThat twenty centuries of stony sleep\nWere vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, \nAnd what rough beast, its hour come round at last, \nSlouches towards Bethlehem to be born?",
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