tURNING and turning in the widening gyre
t he falconer;
t; tre cannot hold;
Mere anarche world,
tide is loosed, and everywhere
the ceremony of innocence is drowned;
t lack all conviction, w
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely t hand.
t
image out of Spiritus Mundi
troubles my sig
A she head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slo it
Reel s desert birds.
t now I know
t ty centuries of stony sleep
ere vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And s last,
Sloucoo be born?