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But in our age the appeal to authority is weak, and I am of my age.

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
Weak
Authority
Age
Glitter
Appeal
Appeals

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Poets are mysterious, but a poet when all is said is not much more mysterious than a banker.
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Our loss put six feet under ground Is measured by the magnolia's root Our gain's the intellectual sound Of death's feet round a weedy tomb.
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Let us lie down once more by the breathing side Of Ocean, where our live forefathers sleep As if the Known Sea still were a month wide-- Atlantis howls but is no longer steep!
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Men expect too much, do too little.
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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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The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!
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I say that what one loves is best: The midnight fastness of the heart.
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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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Men expect too much, do too little, Put the contraption before the accomplishment, Lack skill of the interior mind To fashion dignity with shapes of air. Luxury, yes but not elegance!
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Experience means conflict, our natures being what they are, and conflict means drama.
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Punctilious abyss, the yawn of space Come once a day to suffocate the sight.
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The Spring I seek is in a new face only.
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The only real evidence that any critic may bring before his gaze is the finished poem.
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Religion is the sole technique for the validating of values.
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But we shall not know the world by looking at it we know it by looking at the hovering fly.
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The twilight is long fingers and black hair.
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What is the poem, after it is written? That is the question. Not where it came from or why.
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The dusk runs down the lane driven like hail Far off a precise whistle is escheat To the dark and then the towering weak and pale.
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Now remember courage, go to the door,Open it and see whether coiled on the bedOr cringing by the wall, a savage beastMaybe with golden hair, with deep eyesLike a bearded spider on a sunlit floorWill snarl-and man can never be alone.
Allen Tate
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Poets, in their way, are practical men they are interested in results.
Allen Tate