Quote

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.

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
Heart
Flies
Mould
Insects
Spider
Casual
Ceiling
Lazy
Dreary
Shuffles
Stick
Ceilings
Pinks
Sticks
Buzz
Pall
Along
Grapes
Shuffle
Wall
Spiders
Weaving

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But in our age the appeal to authority is weak, and I am of my age.
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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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But we shall not know the world by looking at it we know it by looking at the hovering fly.
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we know our end A packet of worm-seed, a garden of spent tissues.
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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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Men cannot live forever But they must die forever.
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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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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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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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Let us begin to understand the argument. There is a solution to everything: Science.
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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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Genetic theories, I gather, have been cherished academically with detachment.
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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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The only real evidence that any critic may bring before his gaze is the finished poem.
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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.
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