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William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) The fascination1 of what's difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins2, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart. There's something ails3 our colt That must, as if it had not holy blood Nor on Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud, Shiver under the lash4, strain, sweat and jolt5 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 knave6 and dolt7, 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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