The Author William Butler Yeats

The Fascination Of What’s Difficult


    The Fascination of what’s difficult
    Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent
    Spontaneous joy and natural content
    Out of my heart. There’s something ails our colt
    That must, as if it had not holy blood,
    Nor on an Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,
    Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and jolt
    As though it dragged road metal. My curse on plays
    That have to be set up in fifty ways,
    On the day’s war with every knave and dolt,
    Theatre business, management of men.
    I swear before the dawn comes round again
    I’ll find the stable and pull out the bolt.


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