Parties fall apart; the center cannot hold. (We've sure seen that.) Mere anarchy is loosed upon the political world. (Have a look at the morning paper.) The best among them lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity. (Cast your eyes toward the capital.) It can make us wonder what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches toward Washington to be born. (We can only dread.)

Can it be that William Butler Yeats, a Protestant steeped in the nationalism of Catholic Ireland and writing during the post-World War I pandemic, understood perfectly the tides of American politics? Can it be that his vision — sharpened by the struggles his father and pregnant wife waged against the deadly flu — helps us understand the contemporary threat to civic comity?

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