The Second Coming
W. B. Yeats
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
W. B. Yeats
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
W. B. Yeats
Things fall apart;
W. B. Yeats
the centre cannot hold;
W. B. Yeats
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
W. B. Yeats
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
W. B. Yeats
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
W. B. Yeats
The best lack all conviction,
W. B. Yeats
while the worst are full of passionate intensity.
W. B. Yeats
Surely some revelation is at hand;
W. B. Yeats
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
W. B. Yeats
The Second Coming!
W. B. Yeats
Hardly are those words out
W. B. Yeats
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight:
W. B. Yeats
somewhere in sands of the desert
W. B. Yeats
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
W. B. Yeats
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
W. B. Yeats
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
W. B. Yeats
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
W. B. Yeats
The darkness drops again; but now I know
W. B. Yeats
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
W. B. Yeats
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
W. B. Yeats
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
The Second Coming
Collect this idea from W. B. Yeats in the app.
