I expect he will survive.
I love Yeats, too. But when he wrote that poem, I expect he had folks like you in mind. FWIW.
I.e., people who don't give a rat's *ss about any putative "center" that can hold.
But to me, my dear friend, time is the "mother of Truth." And we will be subject to Truth's finding, at the end of the day.
May God bless you, dude. You need it - as do we all.
Possible, I suppose. Doubt it, though. He lived in an Ireland where militant, revanchist Catholicism was at war with militant Presbyterianism. See the second stanza:
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: somewhere in 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?