Letter from Edward Thomas to the poet Gordon Bottomley. Sent from Minsmere, Dunwich, Suffolk. Archival ref: 424/1/1/1/10/102
Minsmere, 26,ii,08, 11.30pm Wednesday
My dear Gordon, I very much wanted to write to you the day - Monday - your letter came, but something naughtily prevented; and now I daresay this will suffer for my disobedience to the little will that is in me. I was reading Abercrombie's book at the time. It cost me two whole days though I was not allowed to do a long review, and as it is I have wasted some space. He is good there is no doubt. (He reminded me a little of you) if he can get finer without losing his energy he will pass Sturge Moore. But he is already fine, has his own vocabulary and a wonderful variety in his blank verse, has certainly his own vision of things, is perhaps too metaphysical. But though I have written a review of the book I have not made up my mind about it except that it is the sincere work of an artist. I winder what he is like and envy you your chance of knowing him. I have lately enjoyed Mary Coleridge's poems and Michael Field's new book, also above all Doughty's 'Wanderings in Arabia'. Before I forget it, thanks for the two 'Saturday Articles', though I haven't yet read the one you mistook for me. I am always glad to see Hudson's work. I love the man, though I don't mistake that particular piece on 'furze' for great literature when I say it gives me extraordinary pleasure. The tenderness and wildness of it - the mention of those hard big hands of his - the modesty, ease and serenity of it give me more than some better work. But of course it is nothing like his finest words except in its candour. Except William Morris there is not other man whom I would sometimes like to have been, no other writing man. William Morris' 'Message of the March Wind', though nothing liked Hudson reminds me of Hudson, and isn't it a noble piece of humanity? There is nothing of the 'masterly superb describer' about Hudson. I laughed at your trying to find which Wagner and Beethoven might have, out of their abundance, in common with me. But my admirer, though not a great intellect, did not link us except as 'influences' on him. I wish I