Allen Tate

(19 November 1899 - 9 February 1979 / Winchester, Kentucky)

Allen Tate Poems

1. More Sonnets At Christmas Iii 4/21/2010
2. More Sonnets At Christmas Iv 4/21/2010
3. Sonnets Of The Blood Iii 4/21/2010
4. Sonnets Of The Blood Ix 4/21/2010
5. Sonnets Of The Blood V 4/21/2010
6. Sonnets Of The Blood V 4/21/2010
7. Sonnets Of The Blood Vi 4/21/2010
8. Sonnets Of The Blood Vii 4/21/2010
9. Sonnets Of The Blood Vii 4/21/2010
10. Sonnets Of The Blood Ii 4/21/2010
11. Message From Abroad 4/21/2010
12. Homily 4/21/2010
13. Records 4/21/2010
14. Retroduction To American History 4/21/2010
15. More Sonnets At Christmas I 4/21/2010
16. Horatian Epode To The Duchess Of Malfi 4/21/2010
17. Fragment Of A Meditation 4/21/2010
18. Causerie 4/21/2010
19. Sonnets Of The Blood I 4/21/2010
20. Mother And Son 4/21/2010
21. Farewell To Anactoria 4/21/2010
22. Inside And Outside 4/21/2010
23. Jubilo 4/21/2010
24. Emblems 4/21/2010
25. Obituary 4/21/2010
26. Sonnet To Beauty 4/21/2010
27. Sonnets At Christmas I 4/21/2010
28. The Trout Map 4/21/2010
29. Correspondences 4/21/2010
30. Ditty 4/21/2010
31. More Sonnets At Christmas Ii 4/21/2010
32. Pastoral 4/21/2010
33. Eclogue Of The Liberal And The Poet 4/21/2010
34. A Pauper 4/21/2010
35. Ignis Fatuus 4/21/2010
36. The Progress Of Œnia 4/21/2010
37. A Carrion 4/21/2010
38. Sonnets At Christmas Ii 4/21/2010
39. Art 4/21/2010
40. Light 4/21/2010
Best Poem of Allen Tate

Ode To The Confederate Dead

Row after row with strict impunity
The headstones yield their names to the element,
The wind whirrs without recollection;
In the riven troughs the splayed leaves
Pile up, of nature the casual sacrament
To the seasonal eternity of death;
Then driven by the fierce scrutiny
Of heaven to their election in the vast breath,
They sough the rumour of mortality.

Autumn is desolation in the plot
Of a thousand acres where these memories grow
From the inexhaustible bodies that are not
Dead, but feed the grass row after rich row.
Think of the autumns that have ...

Read the full of Ode To The Confederate Dead

A Pauper

. . . and the children's teeth shall be set on edge.

I see him old, trapped in a burly house
Cold in the angry spitting of a rain
Come down these sixty years.

Why vehemently
Astride the threshold do I wait, marking
The ice softly pendent on his broken temple?

[Hata Bildir]