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. Pastoral 4/21/2010
14. Records 4/21/2010
15. Retroduction To American History 4/21/2010
16. More Sonnets At Christmas I 4/21/2010
17. Horatian Epode To The Duchess Of Malfi 4/21/2010
18. Fragment Of A Meditation 4/21/2010
19. Causerie 4/21/2010
20. Sonnets Of The Blood I 4/21/2010
21. Mother And Son 4/21/2010
22. Seasons Of The Soul 4/21/2010
23. Farewell To Anactoria 4/21/2010
24. Inside And Outside 4/21/2010
25. Jubilo 4/21/2010
26. Emblems 4/21/2010
27. Obituary 4/21/2010
28. Sonnet To Beauty 4/21/2010
29. Sonnets At Christmas I 4/21/2010
30. Correspondences 4/21/2010
31. Ditty 4/21/2010
32. The Trout Map 4/21/2010
33. More Sonnets At Christmas Ii 4/21/2010
34. Eclogue Of The Liberal And The Poet 4/21/2010
35. A Pauper 4/21/2010
36. Ignis Fatuus 4/21/2010
37. The Progress Of Œnia 4/21/2010
38. A Carrion 4/21/2010
39. Art 4/21/2010
40. Sonnets At Christmas Ii 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

Correspondences

(From the French of Charles Baudelaire)

All nature is a temple where the alive
Pillars breathe often a tremor of mixed words;
Man wanders in a forest of accords
That peer familiarly from each ogive.

Like thinning echoes tumbling to sleep beyond
In a unity umbrageous and infinite,

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