Quote

I believe the term modulation denotes in music the uninterrupted shift from one key to another: I do not know the term for change of rhythm without change of measure.

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
Music
Uninterrupted
Without
Shift
Believe
Rhythm
Measure
Keys
Term
Another
Modulation
Change
Denotes

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I had kept opaque Down deeper than the canyons undersea The sullen spectrum of a buried lake Nobody saw not seen even by me.
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We know the particular poem, not what it says that we can restate.
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For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain.
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For often at Church I've seen the stained high glass Pour out the Virgin and Saints, twist and untwist The mortal youth of Christ astride an ass.
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Walk in this faithless grass with studious tread, Lest mice, weasels, germane beasts, too soon The tall hat and eyes, the fierce feet, for dead Descry, and fix you prone in their revelling moon.
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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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The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!
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Venus knows country matters: country knows Venus: For Love, Dione's boy, was born on the farm.
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The poet is he who fights on the passionate Side and whoever loses he wins when he Is defeated it is hard to say who wins.
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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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I say that what one loves is best: The midnight fastness of the heart.
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In a manner of speaking, the poem is its own knower, neither poet nor reader knowing anything that the poem says apart from the words of the poem.
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So face with calm that heritage And earn contempt before the age.
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Row after row with strict impunity The headstones yield their names to the element, The wind whirrs without recollection.
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The Spring I seek is in a new face only.
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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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For some reason most critics have a hard time fixing their minds directly under their noses, and before they see the object that is there they use a telescope upon the horizon to see where it came from.
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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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I thought I heard the dark pounding its head On a rock, crying: Who are the dead?
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But in our age the appeal to authority is weak, and I am of my age.
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