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I have felt darkness lead me by the hand Over the hill to greet the singing dawn.

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
Hands
Hill
Hills
Dawn
Lead
Singing
Darkness
Hand
Felt
Greet

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The only real evidence that any critic may bring before his gaze is the finished poem.
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We are afraid that we have not lived. We are not afraid of dying.
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Narcissism and the Confederate dead cannot be connected logically, or even historically even were the connection an historical fact, they would not stand connected as art, for no one experiences raw history.
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There is probably nothing wrong with art for art's sake if we take the phrase seriously, and not take it to mean the kind of poetry written in England forty years ago.
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Religion is the sole technique for the validating of values.
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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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The torrent of the reaching shade Broke shadow into all its parts, What then had been of shadow made Found exigence in fits and starts.
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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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Poets are mysterious, but a poet when all is said is not much more mysterious than a banker.
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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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Men expect too much, do too little.
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So the dubbed conceit Played nursery of cheat To clear the I of sleet.
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The dusk runs down the lane driven like hail Far off a precise whistle is escheat To the dark and then the towering weak and pale.
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How does one happen to write a poem: where does it come from? That is the question asked by the psychologists or the geneticists of poetry.
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But in our age the appeal to authority is weak, and I am of my age.
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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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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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Peering, I heard the hooves come down the hill. The posse passed, twelve horse the leader's face Was worn as limestone on an ancient sill.
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The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!
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