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Genetic theories, I gather, have been cherished academically with detachment.

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
Cherished
Detachment
Genetic
Gather
Theories
Theory
Academically

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The twilight is long fingers and black hair.
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Culture is the study of perfection, and the constant effort to achieve it.
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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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Row after row with strict impunity The headstones yield their names to the element, The wind whirrs without recollection.
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Dramatic experience is not logical it may be subdued to the kind of coherence that we indicate when we speak, in criticism, of form.
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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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What is the poem, after it is written? That is the question. Not where it came from or why.
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Yevgeny Yevtushenko is a ham actor, not a poet.
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Men cannot live forever But they must die forever.
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What is the flesh and blood compounded ofBut a few moments in the life of time?This prowling of the cells, litigious love,Wears the long claw of flesh-arguing crime.
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The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!
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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.
Allen Tate
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William Blake cursed the flesh for a clod, Yet of some of his sayings we Moderns have heard tell: 'The nakedness of woman is the work of God', Or that title--The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.
Allen Tate
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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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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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My darling boy whom I shall never know, My son, I love you in my deepest fears.
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What was I saying? An Egyptian king Once touched long fingers, which are not anything.
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In the cold morning the rested street stands up To greet the clerk who saunters down the world.
Allen Tate
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Poets, in their way, are practical men they are interested in results.
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Ah, Christ, I love you rings to the wild sky And I must think a little of the past: When I was ten I told a stinking lie That got a black boy whipped.
Allen Tate