When my soul soars to dizzying height,
I grab my pen.
I've got to write! No longer will I be afraid!
(But dear, the beds are still unmade.)

In rages wild I pace and think,
''I'll paint!"
(And dishes in the sink.)

Unceasing torment drives me yet,
"I'll dance! Or sing!"
(The baby's wet.)

Life's to be lived to full maturity!
But I die a child in my own obscurity.
And my spirit, starving, keeps growing thinner,
And my good spouse asks me, "What's for dinner?"