The way things are going in this country, with Der Furor and his rabid supporters ramping up hatred and mistrust, the political parties hopelessly divided, religious leaders discredited, the rule of law undermined, and a complete lack of any unifying person or institution around which Americans can rally, this classic poem by William Butler Yeats is more readable and applicable than ever.
The Second Coming
by William Butler Yeats
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
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?
A great many rough beasts, full of passionate intensity rather than empathy and goodwill, are slouching toward November of 2024. Choose wisely.
Have a good day and enjoy the rest of your weekend. More thoughts coming.
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?
A great many rough beasts, full of passionate intensity rather than empathy and goodwill, are slouching toward November of 2024. Choose wisely.
Have a good day and enjoy the rest of your weekend. More thoughts coming.
Bilbo
2 comments:
I read about an evangelical pastor that asked his flock what they thought of Jesus. They said that he was too liberal.
Well said. And this is an apt poem selection. It has always raised the hair on the back of my neck, and now more so than ever.
@ Mike: I wonder what the pastor said in response?
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