Quote

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.

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
Seen
Saints
High
Mortal
Astride
Church
Ass
Stained
Christ
Mortals
Twist
Often
Glass
Virgin
Glasses
Pour
Saint
Twists
Youth
Virgins

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Death's long anabasis.
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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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We are afraid that we have not lived. We are not afraid of dying.
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The idiot greens the meadow with his eyes, The meadow creeps implacable and still A dog barks, the hammock swings, he lies. One two three the cows bulge on the hill.
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So the dubbed conceit Played nursery of cheat To clear the I of sleet.
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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 the particular poem, not what it says that we can restate.
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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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But we shall not know the world by looking at it we know it by looking at the hovering fly.
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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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The twilight is long fingers and black hair.
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Men expect too much, do too little.
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The day's at end and there's nowhere to go, Draw to the fire, even this fire is dying Get up and once again politely lying Invite the ladies toward the mistletoe.
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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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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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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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Yevgeny Yevtushenko is a ham actor, not a poet.
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The Spring I seek is in a new face only.
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Row after row with strict impunity The headstones yield their names to the element, The wind whirrs without recollection.
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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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