My Modernity in Literature class begins today. I've been teaching this course for about twelve years.
I change it a bit each time, and my students change, too.
This year, all of them were born in the twenty-first century. And, of course, the Pandemic has changed everything.
One poem we will read today is Yeats' "The Second Coming" which he wrote in 1919:
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
The Second
Coming, (1919)
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:
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 towards
Bethlehem to be born?
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