Marianne Moore walked into Sever 11 at five minutes past five on Thursday afternoon with F. O. Mathiessen who led her down the seven steps to the sunken platform.

The name "Marianne" sounds so youthful that maybe some people were as surprised as I to see a lady of some fifty-odd. She didn't even look like a poet. She had a quiet, pale face which looked as if maybe it was a little frightened by the large, black, sawed-off witch's cap she was wearing. There was appropriate white lace at her collar and cuffs.

Miss Moore was about to sit down with the Harry Levins when Mr. Mathiessen pointed to a chair on the platform. She took it. "I don't have to introduce Marianne Moore to Harvard, but I would like to introduce Harvard to Marianne Moore," began Mr. Mathiessen. He made references to her editing the literary magazine "Dial" and then said something about how gratified he was to see so many people present and that he was certain Miss Moore's announced appearance had been responsible for "our recent inhabitant of the Yard, the owl." He said he only regretted that it wasn't a jerboa.

Then Miss Moore got up and said that it was at such times as this that "one is faced with embarrassment at having written poetry." This caused some laughter. She spoke for about ten minutes on things that had no connection but which she wove together so smoothly with a transitional cough that every one began to enjoy just being with her from the beginning. It was soon obvious that she was only in for a chat.

She said that she had put Joe Louis (and his ghost writers) up for election recently to the American Institute of Arts and Letters on the basis of the fine rhythm is his "Life Story." "This was greeted by riotous approbation, not directed so much to my good-will as to my judgment." She then said something about the "Sunday School" approach to writing having its values.

She read a poem called "A Face," from a slip of paper she had, and followed that with one called "Voracities and Verities Sometimes Are Interacting." Then she opened a leather bound book and read "The Wood Weasel" ("I'm sorry it isn't an owl") and then her wartime poem "In Distrust of Merits" "And I don't think any better of it now than when I wrote it." Then she sat down.

Mr. Mathiessen leaned forward in his chair, uncertainly. She had only been talking twenty minutes. Miss Moore then said, "That's all," and gave a downward affirmative jerk of her head. People began to applaud and she 'seemed a little flustered. She gathered up her little slips of paper and the visit was over.

Old Morris Gray had just shelled out a very hefty sum of money for only twenty minutes of chit-chat and poetry, something new for him. Marianne Moore once wrote of poetry: "There are things more important beyond all this fiddle." And everyone there seemed pleased, amused, and charmed with Marianne.