The New Criterion

Robert Bridges (1844–1930) is perhaps the most conspicuous example of that faintly alarming figure, the happy poet. His strenuously archaic diction, his eccentric devotion to syllabic and quantitative measures, his bizarre attempts to simplify English spelling, as well as his unvaryingly placid manner, all obstruct the appreciation of his genius; but it is his happiness, a matter of conviction as well as temperament, that most repels contemporary readers. We prefer our poets to be wracked with anguish or, at least, chronically depressed and raving on Paxil. We want dark nights of the soul from our bards, not breezy afternoons. Happiness looks suspect; it appears obtuse, oblivious, smug. Of all states of mind, happiness is the most fleeting; it ignores past and future to celebrate the ephemeral moment; it obviates memory as well as prophecy. In this sense, Bridges’s poetry seems not simply dated but dateless. It contains no “moment in t ...

This article is available to subscribers and for individual purchase

Subscribe to TNC (Print and Online editions)

Subscribe to TNC (Online only)

Purchase article credit and clip this article

If you already have an account login first