Seeing the hand-written originals of poems always brings home the touch and the moment-by-moment thought of the author. That poem we all know and love was once just a man, alone, thinking. It makes the words excitingly fragile when you see them as they were first imagined– those pre-canon, notebook scribblings that could have easily never been shared or captured.
He could have never imagined how that afternoon’s work would travel over centuries and continents. How those words would touch so many different people. If I get to meet Sassoon in heaven, I’ll enjoy telling him that I once spent an afternoon carefully cutting his words (some of my favourite) out of paper.