Quote

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.

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
Thinking
Christ
Christmas
Black
Wild
Past
Guilt
Littles
Ten
Little
Sky
Must
Boys
Stinking
Love
Told
Whipped
Think
Lying
Rings

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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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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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William Blake cursed the flesh for a clod, Yet of some of his sayings we Moderns have heard tell: 'The nakedness of woman is the work of God', Or that title--The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.
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Dark accurate plunger down the successive knell Of arch on arch, where ogives burst a red Reverberance of hail upon the dead Thunder like an exploding crucible!
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Among friends one has the privilege of saying nothing the civility consists in the assumption that one's silence will be civilly understood. I can imagine a small gathering of friends who say nothing all evening: they recoil from saying anything that the others don't want to hear and their silence would be the subtlest courtesy.
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Yevgeny Yevtushenko is a ham actor, not a poet.
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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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I have felt darkness lead me by the hand Over the hill to greet the singing dawn.
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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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Culture is the study of perfection, and the constant effort to achieve it.
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The twilight is long fingers and black hair.
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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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Genetic theories, I gather, have been cherished academically with detachment.
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Men cannot live forever But they must die forever.
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Our loss put six feet under ground Is measured by the magnolia's root Our gain's the intellectual sound Of death's feet round a weedy tomb.
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We know the particular poem, not what it says that we can restate.
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Other psychological theories say a good deal about compensation.
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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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Death's long anabasis.
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