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For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain.

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
Without
Mansion
Drain
Mansions
Drains
Intellect
Waste

More quotes by Allen Tate

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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 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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In the cold morning the rested street stands up To greet the clerk who saunters down the world.
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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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Experience means conflict, our natures being what they are, and conflict means drama.
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Serious poetry deals with the fundamental conflicts that cannot be logically resolved: we can state the conflicts rationally, but reason does not relieve us of them.
Allen Tate
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The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!
Allen Tate
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Death's long anabasis.
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I say that what one loves is best: The midnight fastness of the heart.
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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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Yevgeny Yevtushenko is a ham actor, not a poet.
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But we shall not know the world by looking at it we know it by looking at the hovering fly.
Allen Tate
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According to its doctors, my one intransigent desire is to have been a Confederate general, and because I could not or would not become anything else, I set up for poet and beg an to invent fictions about the personal ambitions that my society has no use for.
Allen Tate
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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!
Allen Tate
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Row after row with strict impunity The headstones yield their names to the element, The wind whirrs without recollection.
Allen Tate
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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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Punctilious abyss, the yawn of space Come once a day to suffocate the sight.
Allen Tate
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My darling boy whom I shall never know, My son, I love you in my deepest fears.
Allen Tate
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In an age of abstract experience, fornication Is self-expression, adjunct to Christian euphoria, And whores become delinquents delinquents, patients Patients, wards of society. Whores, by that rule, Are precious.
Allen Tate
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Men expect too much, do too little.
Allen Tate