William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)　　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.

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