The more a poet rids his verses of heterogeneous knowledge and irrelevant
analysis, and purifies his mind with elaborate art, the more does the
little ritual of his verse resemble the great ritual of Nature, and become
mysterious and inscrutable. He becomes, as all the great mystics have
believed, a vessel of the creative power of God; and whether he be a great
poet or a small poet, we can praise the poems, which but seem to be his,
with the extremity of praise that we give this great ritual which is but
copied from the same eternal model. There is poetry that is like the white
light of noon, and poetry that has the heaviness of woods, and poetry that
has the golden light of dawn or of sunset; and I find in the poetry of
Mr. Bridges in the plays, but still more in the lyrics, the pale colours,
the delicate silence, the low murmurs of cloudy country days, when the
plough is in the earth, and the clouds darkening towards sunset; and had I
the great gift of praising, I would praise it as I would praise these
things.
1896.