The first prose draft of “The Fascination of What’s Difficult.” JWF mentioned this today, drawing attention to the heart-breakingly adorable misspelling of “colt,” and saying that some have suggested that Yeats was a dyslexic. This piques my dyslexic pride radar, for obvious familial reasons. The final, in case you need your memory jogged:
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 think I die of love for Yeats whenever I read this poem. (Prose draft swiped from Jeffares on Yeats, of course.)
