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

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The mission for the day is to encourage students to think beyond traditional career opportunities, prepare for future careers and entrance into the workplace.
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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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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!
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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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Men expect too much, do too little.
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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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So the poet, who wants to be something that he cannot be, and is a failure in plain life, makes up fictitious versions of his predicament that are interesting even to other persons because nobody is a perfect automobile salesman.
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Other psychological theories say a good deal about compensation.
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Religion is the sole technique for the validating of values.
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Venus knows country matters: country knows Venus: For Love, Dione's boy, was born on the farm.
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we know our end A packet of worm-seed, a garden of spent tissues.
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We are afraid that we have not lived. We are not afraid of dying.
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Culture is the study of perfection, and the constant effort to achieve it.
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I am not ridiculing verbal mechanisms, dreams, or repressions as origins of poetry all three of them and more besides may have a great deal to do with it.
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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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For some reason most critics have a hard time fixing their minds directly under their noses, and before they see the object that is there they use a telescope upon the horizon to see where it came from.
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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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So the dubbed conceit Played nursery of cheat To clear the I of sleet.
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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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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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