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TURNING and turning in the widening gyre The falcon1 cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere2 anarchy3 is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence4 is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate5 intensity6. 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 thighs7, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony8 sleep Were vexed9 to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
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