Let’s end April with a poem. No, not T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land,” which starts “April is the cruelest month.” Nor Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “Spring,” which ends “April/Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.” Let’s try “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats.
Yeats—no, not Dave Yates, who owned The Hickory Pit in Saugatuck—penned his 1919 poem drawing on Apocalyptic imagery.
“Turning and turning in the widening gyre,” it begins, “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 ...”
And you think poets today are gloomy?
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