Friday, 23 December 2011

Willliam Butler Yeats tweet poetry

W.B. Yeats (1865-1939) has an uncanny gift for prophecy. This Irish poet, politician and playwright dabbled in the occult and automatic writing (of which more later perhaps). 
And what rough beast its hour come round at last Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born

The full poem is here.

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?

If you want to know something more about gyres, the theory of cycles that influenced Yeats, you can find it here

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