The only thing worse than having things to do, after all, is not having things to do. And the only thing worse than being caught up in the pleasure of Tough Projects is not being so caught up.
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.
I’m enmeshed, once more, in that irritable ecstasy. Don’t pity me; envy me.
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