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The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats

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Turning and turning in the widening gyre

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The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

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Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

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Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

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The blood-dimmed tide is loosed,
and everywhere

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The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

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The best lack all conviction,
while the worst

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Are full of passionate intensity.

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Surely some revelation is at hand;

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Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

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The Second Coming! 
Hardly are those words out

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When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

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Troubles my sight: somewhere
in sands of the desert

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A shape with lion body 
and the head of a man,

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A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

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Is moving its slow thighs, 
while all about it

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Reel shadows of
the indignant desert birds.

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The darkness drops again; but now I know

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That twenty centuries of stony sleep

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Were vexed to nightmare
by a rocking cradle,

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And what rough beast,
its hour come round at last,

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Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?