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The mission for the day is to encourage students to think beyond traditional career opportunities, prepare for future careers and entrance into the workplace.
Allen Tate
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Allen Tate
Age: 79 †
Born: 1899
Born: November 19
Died: 1979
Died: February 9
Author
Literary Critic
Poet
University Teacher
Writer
Winchester
Kentucky
John Orley Allen Tate
Beyond
Encouragement
Future
Mission
Opportunity
Missions
Think
Opportunities
Entrance
Thinking
Traditional
Entrances
Career
Workplace
Students
Prepare
Careers
Encourage
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Let us begin to understand the argument. There is a solution to everything: Science.
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Men expect too much, do too little.
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Genetic theories, I gather, have been cherished academically with detachment.
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I have felt darkness lead me by the hand Over the hill to greet the singing dawn.
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Punctilious abyss, the yawn of space Come once a day to suffocate the sight.
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I say that what one loves is best: The midnight fastness of the heart.
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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!
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A poem may be an instance of morality, of social conditions, of psychological history it may instance all its qualities, but never one of them alone, nor any two or three never less than all.
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we know our end A packet of worm-seed, a garden of spent tissues.
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Poets, in their way, are practical men they are interested in results.
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There's precious little to say between day and dark, Perhaps a few words on the implacable will Of time sailing like a magic barque Or something as fine for the amenities.
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According to its doctors, my one intransigent desire is to have been a Confederate general, and because I could not or would not become anything else, I set up for poet and beg an to invent fictions about the personal ambitions that my society has no use for.
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In the cold morning the rested street stands up To greet the clerk who saunters down the world.
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For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain.
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There is probably nothing wrong with art for art's sake if we take the phrase seriously, and not take it to mean the kind of poetry written in England forty years ago.
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We know the particular poem, not what it says that we can restate.
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Last night I fled until I came To streets where leaking casements dripped Stale lamplight from the corpse of flame A nervous window bled.
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Good manners, Madam, are had these days not For your asking, nor mine, nor what-we-used-to-be's. The day is a loud grenade that bursts a smile Of serious weeds in a comic lily plot.
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Struck in the wet mire Four thousand leagues from the ninth buried city I thought of Troy, what we had built her for.
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There is a calm for you where men and women Unroll the chill precision of moving feet.
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