Allen Tate

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

Allen Tate Quotes

  • ''I suck in smoke! I smile at grimy mirth,
    And laugh to think that you had parried death.''
    Allen Tate (1899-1979), U.S. poet, critic. "Fair Cuirass Shattered."
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  • ''every son-of-a-bitch is Christ, at least Rousseau....''
    Allen Tate (1899-1979), U.S. poet, critic. "Retroduction to American History."
  • ''For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain....''
    Allen Tate (1899-1979), U.S. poet, critic. "Retroduction to American History."
  • ''The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!''
    Allen Tate (1899-1979), U.S. poet, critic. "Idiot."
  • ''The twilight is long fingers and black hair.''
    Allen Tate (1899-1979), U.S. poet, critic. "Long Fingers."
  • ''For Pope's tight back was rather a goat's than man's.''
    Allen Tate (1899-1979), U.S. poet. Mr. Pope (l. 4). . . Collected Poems, 1919-1976 [Allen Tate]. (1989) Louisiana State University Press.
  • ''The Spring I seek is in a new face only.''
    Allen Tate (1899-1979), U.S. poet, critic. "These Deathy Leaves."
  • ''They sough the rumour of mortality.''
    Allen Tate (1899-1979), U.S. poet, critic. "Ode to the Confederate Dead."
  • ''The moon will run all consciences to cover....''
    Allen Tate (1899-1979), U.S. poet, critic. "Ditty."

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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?

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