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Had a strange dream last night about Wilfred Owen. He had returned to life (à la ‘Mary Rose’). I was my young self, but was explaining to him all that happened about his becoming so famous. It was a pleasant dream, with Weirleigh background. Wilfred looked more like his brother Harold – had fair hair. It may have been induced by my thinking about my poems before falling asleep, and wishing I could get advice about them from Parnassian departed friends. But W. said nothing about my work, and I was merely happy at his return and taking charge of him. At the end of the dream we were leaving Weirleigh and going off abroad together. I have never dreamt of him being with me before, though he has been so often in my mind in the last thirty-five years. ‘O Wilfred, how wonderful, that you are back again alive!’ I exclaimed to him. During this dream I half-awoke more than twice, but the dream continued.