The Blogger is away until the Met decide to release us.
Since The Blogger has got into some high-falutin’ chit chat about Yeats over on The Secular Backlash, here’s The Second Coming to ponder over the weekend:
- 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: somewhere in the 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?
Thanks for the poem, BB. Unfortunately my hangover isn’t letting me display any kind of passionate intensity. I think I’m off for twenty centuries of stony sleep. Hope you didn’t get arrested, and if you did I hope it was worth it.