Letter from Edward Thomas to the poet Gordon Bottomley. Sent from Rose Acre, Bearsted Green, Maidstone, Kent. Archival ref: 424/1/1/1/10/1
30/09/1902

Dear Gordon Bottomley,

Nearly seven years ago I glanced at a manuscript of yours in Mr Nobles' house, and now I wish that I had written to you straight away. For I have been staring at this paper half an hour, trying to get a take-off for a leap to Well Known House. The north Weston Railway could not have been much slower that my own unimaginative mind. But seven years ago I could have made the leap with the same confidence as the idiot who dropped a letter 'to heaven' into a scarlet pillar-box. You, I know, think little of such strides - more caracolings of the fancy - and your letters come here not in the least out of breath. So perhaps you will some day write a letter specially to me. Then, I think the swiftness of your fancy will carry mine back to you - wish I dutifully wish.
No, I cant make the leap. A letter is the only kind of writing which in these dark ages can still be called inspired. Even lyrical poetry - look at Shelley's manuscripts, or read the Ars Poetica - is largely an exhausting muscular labour. But in a letter the muse supplies everything but pen, paper and ink.
It should be (not, as this appears to be, the tortuous labour of a spider newly risen from the ink horn) the unwoven shadows of immortal things.

(Multa desunt/ many things are lacking)

Yours sincerely

Edward Thoms.