TO THE POETS IN EXILE
OH, yes, I know, too well I know, the sunshine still shines on western sands when the winds wail here. Children are sunburnt there who were chilled and chased out of dark homes into dark streets by bombing. They deserve safety, even deserve, the good ones, the round immortal bulk of Navaho Mountain, pine-covered, flower-pied, finest in all my world. But they are children, and need to grow in sunlight. Here it is dark in the evenings, faint lights shine ye:low ; out of the darkness death comes howling ;
rain drops steadily, on slippery roads. • We do not like it, but we can hear death fall without trembling, and the ambulances you drove in foreign Spain still travel at death's command on slippery roads. Yes, and we need some poets, brave men whose words are shaped to portray courage, the spirit of men who stand, to tell how travely England defies the rain.
DAVID WINSER.
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