If there is such a thing as a home for Britain’s national story, it might be found in Westminster Abbey. Enter, and you are immediately inducted into the long history of these islands. Monarchs, statesmen, scientists, generals, poets: here, under one roof, are memorialised the people whose works have formed the mind and body of England and in whose language England learnt to dream.

These days, however, we dream less. The problem is not that our contemporary culture is incapable of producing figures of significance. It is that we can no longer recognise it when we do. As a result, the gates of the Abbey have been closed to the dead.

The gates of the Abbey have been closed to the dead

The gates of the Abbey have been closed to the dead

Last month, J. H. Prynne, described variously as ‘without doubt the most formidable and accomplished poet in England’ and the most erudite poet ‘since Milton’, died. The other – and arguably stronger – contender for that crown, Geoffrey Hill, died a decade ago. But there are no plans to memorialise Hill in Poets’ Corner, and nor does it seem likely that Prynne will be inducted either. Indeed, the last poet to be buried in Westminster Abbey was Thomas Hardy in 1928, while the last to have a memorial plaque was Larkin (a decade ago, some thirty years after his death). The age of the poets, it seems, is over.

The same phenomenon can be seen with politicians – or, as we called some of them in........

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