And yet again...
... it's been ages since I posted.
I've been looking a lot at various political boards and non-political boards that talk about politics as well as a hefty dose of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert (if you haven't seen anything with these guys yet, do a search on YouTube.com). The more I look, the more I think of this poem by William Butler Yeats... The Second Coming. It's a bit cliche and corny, I'm sure, but I can't get it out of my mind. Maybe if I write it out, it will leave.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the center 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 convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
I've been looking a lot at various political boards and non-political boards that talk about politics as well as a hefty dose of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert (if you haven't seen anything with these guys yet, do a search on YouTube.com). The more I look, the more I think of this poem by William Butler Yeats... The Second Coming. It's a bit cliche and corny, I'm sure, but I can't get it out of my mind. Maybe if I write it out, it will leave.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the center 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 convictions, 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: a waste of desert sand;
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
Wind 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 toward Bethlehem to be born?