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'In 1910, when Alfred Noyes's "Collected Poems" came out [...] [Charlotte Mew] read his "The Old Sceptic" and reflected that as far as sentiment went, she might have written the poem herself.'
'The evening was then given up to the consideration of three modern poets. Alfred Noyes. A paper by Mrs Unwin with readings from his works. Henry Newbolt. A paper by C.E. Stansfield with readings Clifton Chapel C.I. Evans Vitai Lampada H.M. Wallis A Ballad of John Nicholson A. Rawlings The Vigil Mrs Robson & two songs. Drake's Drum & the Old Superb Mr Unwin. (3) Rupert Brooke a paper by R.H. Robson with readings by Mrs Rawlings Mrs Evans Mrs Robson & R.H. Robson'
'The Club then listened to a variety of readings from modern poets as follows: A Rawlings Extracts from "The Art of Poetry" T.C. Eliott from Chesterton's "Lepanto" Mrs Evans some verses by Colin D. B. Ellis R. H. Robson from J. C. Squires "Birds" D. Brain from Noyes' "Torch Bearers" C. I. Evans from Thos Hardy G. Burrow poems by his brother F. E. Pollard from Siegfried Sassoon Mrs Pollard from W. Watson's "Lakeland" C. E. Stansfield from Rupert Brooke A. Rawlings from E. V. Lucas & Lang Jones'.
‘There is an excellent article in this week Saturday Westminster, a paper of which I am very fond. It is a review by Walter de la Mare, and is that poet’s confession of Faith … My leave starts on Thursday—5 whole days … Do you not like Laurence Binyon’s verses in the Times Supplement? Those and Hardy’s and Kipling’s are the best of the bunch. Though I like Watson Grenfell and Noyes. Hardy’s grows on one. Did you ever read his last book of Short Stories—"The Changed Man"? … Have you read any of D F Lawrence? I have just finished an extraordinary book called "The White Peacock", full of arresting studies of character and most essentially breathing of earth and clouds and flowers—though not a pleasant book … we had Zeps here about a fortnight ago. Two bombs were dropped on Chelmsford itself, both on or near the Glosters billeting area. The damage was perhaps 5£ worth. It cured an old lady of muscular rheumatism, indeed it made an athlete, a sprinter of her—she went down the street in her nightgown like a comet or some gravity-defying ghost.’