Do you remember the still summer evening

When, in the cosy cream-washed living-room

Of The Old Nailshop, we all talked and laughed -

Our neighbours from The Gallows,

Catherine And Lascelles Abercrombie; Rupert Brooke;

Elinor and Robert Frost, living a while

At Little Iddens, who'd brought over with them

Helen and Edward Thomas? In the lamplight

We talked and laughed; but, for the most part, listened

While Robert Frost kept on and on and on,

In his slow New England fashion, for our delight,

Holding us with shrewd turns and racy quips,

And the rare twinkle of his grave blue eyes?

We sat there in the lamplight, while the day

Died from rose-latticed casements, and the plovers

Called over the low meadows, till the owls

Answered them from the elms, we sat and talked -

Now, a quick flash from Abercrombie; now,

A murmured dry half-heard aside from Thomas;

Now, a clear laughing word from Brooke; and then

Again Frost's rich and ripe philosophy,

That had the body and tang of good draught-cider,

And poured as clear a stream.

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson writing about a gathering of fellow poets in 1914. A substacker writes more about here: https://substack.com/@harrywatson/note/c-128848259