The Second Coming
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 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?
[O que eu mais gosto nesse poema é que ele é de uma escatologia marcadamente modernista mas não tem nada daquela confiança triunfal e exaltada no futuro de outras coisas da época. Publicado em 1920, esse poema contém ainda o que em prosa seria um certo chororô provavelmente de fundo elitista [The Best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity] , que o discurso poético salva e transforma em profecia dos desastres que ainda iriam sacudir a Europa e fazer da grande Guerra Mundial que tinha acabado de terminar apenas a primeira.]
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