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."
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  • ''For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain....''
    Allen Tate (1899-1979), U.S. poet, critic. "Retroduction to American History."
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  • ''The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!''
    Allen Tate (1899-1979), U.S. poet, critic. "Idiot."
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  • ''The twilight is long fingers and black hair.''
    Allen Tate (1899-1979), U.S. poet, critic. "Long Fingers."
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  • ''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.
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  • ''The Spring I seek is in a new face only.''
    Allen Tate (1899-1979), U.S. poet, critic. "These Deathy Leaves."
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  • ''They sough the rumour of mortality.''
    Allen Tate (1899-1979), U.S. poet, critic. "Ode to the Confederate Dead."
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  • ''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

The Subway

Dark accurate plunger down the successive knell
Of arch on arch, where ogives burst a red
Reverberance of hail upon the dead
Thunder like an exploding crucible!
Harshly articulate, musical steel shell
Of angry worship, hurled religiously
Upon your business of humility
Into the iron forestries of hell:

Till broken in the shift of quieter
Dense altitudes tangential of your steel,
I am become geometries, and glut
Expansions like a blind astronomer
Dazed, while the worldless heavens bulge and reel
In the cold revery of an idiot.

Read the full of The Subway

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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