 | |
| |
| 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 |
| 5 | 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, |
| 10 | 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. |
