I needed to write but no subject came,
The landscape sterile, the Writers bane.
No rain of words to anoint the seed,
Those gales of thought by which we feed.
A page like snow where no foot had strayed,
Oh Calliope had flown, no succour paid.
Until; Until I saw her near in Summer dress,
A beguiling smile and flowing tress.
She put to shame the tepid Sun;
To free the Verse and a Poem was done.