What’s this poem about ?
On some days a writer can’t write. Some days a painter can’t paint, a composer can’t compose. These wretched men and women know they are eating the food, burning the fuel, and adding nothing. How can they get through the days, how can they relieve their despairs? They can work in a soup kitchen. They can give blood. No one can hate herself, no one can despise himself, who has fed a hungry stranger or saved a life. That’s a good day’s work