ABSTRACT
It has been said in certain quarters, thoughtlessly, I think, that the years of the present World War have failed to produce memorable poetry, and it has been implied that poetry in some mysterious way has failed to live up to great occasions. With Mr. T.S. Eliot’s ‘Four Quartets’ before me I wish to modify the gloomy accusation that the better poets of our time have been ‘irresponsible’ or have failed to realize the seriousness of living through a difficult hour. For the past twenty years distinguished writers in England and in the United States have been aware of the potential existence of another world war, and they have warned their readers of its hidden forces long before its actual events took place, and in that sense most of the best poetry written in the present generation continues to be ‘war poetry.’
