Quote

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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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
Hair
Spiders
Open
Savages
Cringing
Alone
Golden
Coiled
Whether
Door
Snarl
Remember
Doors
Sunlit
Never
Deep
Bearded
Men
Courage
Spider
Wall
Savage

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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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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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The day's at end and there's nowhere to go, Draw to the fire, even this fire is dying Get up and once again politely lying Invite the ladies toward the mistletoe.
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Therefore with idle hands and head I sit In late December before the fire's daze Punished by crimes of which I would be quit.
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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.
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What was I saying? An Egyptian king Once touched long fingers, which are not anything.
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I say that what one loves is best: The midnight fastness of the heart.
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And I have seen long fingers that would stare With fiery eyes, and then the eyes would crawl Deftly across the counterpane and fall Soundless, with a wink of mild despair.
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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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Culture is the study of perfection, and the constant effort to achieve it.
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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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Let us begin to understand the argument. There is a solution to everything: Science.
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Poets, in their way, are practical men they are interested in results.
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We are afraid that we have not lived. We are not afraid of dying.
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Other psychological theories say a good deal about compensation.
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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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The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!
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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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