My creative urge is dead, Flared and sputtered, cold it lies. Never more it butterflies Caterpillar’s gorgeous guise; Eaglehawk’s and dreamer’s eyes Never more will life disguise. Like a drought-drained dam relies Yearly on the stormy skies Poet-writer loudly cries: Inspiration still denies. Life is old, too stale, too wise Likened to atomic skies. Thinkers then must compromise, Make each fellow-man arise, Look about with childlike eyes. Wallow not in stagnant sties: Look where this “dead” urge has led!