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.