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The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!

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
Innocence
Innocent
Heart
Panther
Panthers
Mansion
Mansions

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Death's long anabasis.
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Poets, in their way, are practical men they are interested in results.
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Antiquity breached mortality with myths. Narcissus is vocabulary. Hermes decorates A cornice on the Third National Bank.
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So the dubbed conceit Played nursery of cheat To clear the I of sleet.
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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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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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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.
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Experience means conflict, our natures being what they are, and conflict means drama.
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All the sea-gods are dead. You, Venus, come home To your salt maidenhead.
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Punctilious abyss, the yawn of space Come once a day to suffocate the sight.
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So the poet, who wants to be something that he cannot be, and is a failure in plain life, makes up fictitious versions of his predicament that are interesting even to other persons because nobody is a perfect automobile salesman.
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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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Swimmer of noonday, lean for the perfect dive To the dead Mother's face, whose subtile down You had not seen take amber light alive.
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What was I saying? An Egyptian king Once touched long fingers, which are not anything.
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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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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 begin to understand the argument. There is a solution to everything: Science.
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The dreary flies, lazy and casual, Stick to the ceiling, buzz along the wall. O heart, the spider shuffles from the mould Weaving, between the pinks and grapes, his pall.
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Culture is the study of perfection, and the constant effort to achieve it.
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