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?