In an old-fashioned house set in an old-fashioned garden, half way up a verdant incline called Boar's Hill on the outskirts of the ancient university town of Oxford, Poet Laureate Robert Bridges* celebrated the 83rd anniversary of his birth. He passed the day quietly receiving many callers, from hoary
Oxford dons to equally hoary litterateurs, and opening many scores of congratulatory wires and letters.
Dr. Robert Bridges, shocked of hair, bestubbled of beard, was appointed Poet LaureateĀ by King George in 1913, thereby disappointing, if not enraging, a vast horde of Kiplingites throughout the...