I’d always known my father’s papers contained a trove of letters from some of the big names in twentieth-century literature. But it wasn’t until I finally began going through my father’s papers one by one that I discovered the breadth and richness of his literary world, his passion and political engagement. Then, one day last spring, I found two yellowing, handwritten sheets of paper among the mostly typewritten letters: one was a note, the other contained verses. At the bottom of each was the clear signature of W.H. Auden.