W. B. 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 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.   1910