https://youtu.be/9egij7D5seI

 Sidney Keyes (killed in action in Tunisia, aged 20 inWW2]

Here is his magnificent elegy in memory of William Wordsworth:

No room for mourning: he’s gone out
Into the noisy glen, or stands between the stones
Of the broken ridge, or you’ll hear his shout
Rolling among the screes, he being a boy again.
He’ll never fail nor die
And if they laid his bones
In the granite vaults or iron sarcophagi
Of fame, he’d rise at the first summer rain
And stride across the hills to seek
His rest among the bony lands and clouds.
He was a stormy day, a wet peak
Spearing the sky; and look, about its base
Words flower like crocuses in the gaunt woods,
Blank though the dalehead and the hanging face

http://www.english.illinois.edu/Maps/poets/m_r/plath/ariel.htm

From the article below

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/6203/the-art-of-fiction-no-218-deborah-eisenberg

Extract

Those of us who are the grandchildren of immigrants often have a void in our psyche that reflects a situation of danger or terror that our grandparents endured. The first generation born in the United States often tries to erase or suppress what they know of their parents’ experience in order to provide a level playing field for their children, but in fact experience and fears can be transmitted in various forms across many generations. Many of us grew up knowing nothing, or next to nothing, about the horrors our grandparents lived through, and when we search for the source of certain anxieties, all we can locate is a kind of blank inscrutability.