chapter  99
2 Pages

M.l. Rosenthal, Review, 'new York Herald Tri-bune', July 1947

This is the first poem, in English at any rate, that speaks boldly, greatly and at length of our sick, desperate confusion in this era of the second world war. It will give sharp reminder to our numerous talented minor poets that there can be strength and responsibility in their art:

All that exists Matters to man; he minds what happens And feels he is at fault, a fallen soul With power to place, to explain every What in his world but why he is neither God nor good....