'Tom Scott came in, bringing a typed copy of his lengthy poem, "On my 21st Birthday". Much of this modern verse is unintelligible to me - and, naturally, much of this particular sample of it is too intimate in incident for general understanding. Scott also brought a couple of poems by his pal George Fraser. There is a ninetyish quality about the verse of these young moderns - but with a difference; the self-conscious daring is not in the carnality but in the technique: this gives their poetry a hardness which cuts through sentimentality but also shears away something of humankindness.'