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Struck in the wet mire Four thousand leagues from the ninth buried city I thought of Troy, what we had built her for.

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
Buried
League
City
Mire
Built
Troy
Thousand
Ninth
Cities
Leagues
Four
Wet
Thought
Struck

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All the sea-gods are dead. You, Venus, come home To your salt maidenhead.
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Punctilious abyss, the yawn of space Come once a day to suffocate the sight.
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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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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.
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The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!
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The twilight is long fingers and black hair.
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Poets, in their way, are practical men they are interested in results.
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The dreary flies, lazy and casual, Stick to the ceiling, buzz along the wall. O heart, the spider shuffles from the mould Weaving, between the pinks and grapes, his pall.
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Experience means conflict, our natures being what they are, and conflict means drama.
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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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There is a calm for you where men and women Unroll the chill precision of moving feet.
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We know the particular poem, not what it says that we can restate.
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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.
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What was I saying? An Egyptian king Once touched long fingers, which are not anything.
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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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POET If not in a place, where are the People weeping? LIBERAL They creep weeping in the face, not place. POET Is it something with which we may cope The weeping, the creeping, the peepee-ing, the peeping?
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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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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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Other psychological theories say a good deal about compensation.
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Culture is the study of perfection, and the constant effort to achieve it.
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