That's right. William Butler Yeats. I dig the man's poetry AND I think he is (er... was) a hot tomato.
I mean, check it out. From Yeats's poem "The Second Coming":
Turning and turning in the widening gyreCome on. That's good post-apocalyptic stuff. Anarchy! Falcons! Blood! Lions! Thighs! Um, gyres! If that doesn't get you a little hot, I don't know what else to say. Gyres!
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 Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
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
Reel 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?
Don't you judge me.