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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.

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
Leader
Posse
Heard
Hill
Face
Worn
Faces
Twelve
Come
Hills
Sill
Passed
Hooves
Ancient
Limestone
Horse
Peering

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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.
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The twilight is long fingers and black hair.
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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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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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Men expect too much, do too little.
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Dramatic experience is not logical it may be subdued to the kind of coherence that we indicate when we speak, in criticism, of form.
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In an age of abstract experience, fornication Is self-expression, adjunct to Christian euphoria, And whores become delinquents delinquents, patients Patients, wards of society. Whores, by that rule, Are precious.
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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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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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All the sea-gods are dead. You, Venus, come home To your salt maidenhead.
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Let us begin to understand the argument. There is a solution to everything: Science.
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But in our age the appeal to authority is weak, and I am of my age.
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Yevgeny Yevtushenko is a ham actor, not a poet.
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What is the poem, after it is written? That is the question. Not where it came from or why.
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For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain.
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Poets are mysterious, but a poet when all is said is not much more mysterious than a banker.
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A poem may be an instance of morality, of social conditions, of psychological history it may instance all its qualities, but never one of them alone, nor any two or three never less than all.
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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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What was I saying? An Egyptian king Once touched long fingers, which are not anything.
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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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