2 The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
3 Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
4 Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
5 The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
6 The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
7 The best lack all convictions, while the worst
8 Are full of passionate intensity.
10 Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
11 The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
12 When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
13 Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
14 A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
15 A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
16 Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
17 Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
18 The darkness drops again; but now I know
19 That twenty centuries of stony sleep
20 Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
21 And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
22 Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?