What did the poet say?
Success is counted sweetest by those who ne’er succeed.
Wrong—deeply, distressingly wrong; the nectar of success
Proves most enticing (indeed, addictive) to those whom Dame Fortune
Has coquettishly extended an index finger
And, and she swirls it in the air ever so slightly,
Let you taste (just for the briefest of moments, mind you) the tip.
A momentary sensation in the merest fragment of time, yes,
But the sweetness, the utterly transcendent joy of that single frame
In the long movie of your life, becomes not a cherished memory
But a maddening grail that engulfs every other desire
And engulfs any semblance of prudence or reason,
Until you are as a boy who, hurdling bicycles and baseball bats,
Forsakes all other toys in the absurd pursuit
Of a runaway kite that has wholly bewitched him
By the alluring pull of the string,
The mad and joyous dance against an endless field of blue.