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we know our end A packet of worm-seed, a garden of spent tissues.

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
Worms
Seed
Seeds
Spent
Garden
Ends
Packet
Tissues
Worm

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My darling boy whom I shall never know, My son, I love you in my deepest fears.
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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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How does one happen to write a poem: where does it come from? That is the question asked by the psychologists or the geneticists of poetry.
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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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For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain.
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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.
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At twelve I was determined to shoot only For honor at twenty not to shoot at all I know at thirty-three that one must shoot As often as one gets the rare chance - In killing there is more than commentary.
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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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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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Genetic theories, I gather, have been cherished academically with detachment.
Allen Tate
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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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There's precious little to say between day and dark, Perhaps a few words on the implacable will Of time sailing like a magic barque Or something as fine for the amenities.
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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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According to its doctors, my one intransigent desire is to have been a Confederate general, and because I could not or would not become anything else, I set up for poet and beg an to invent fictions about the personal ambitions that my society has no use for.
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There is a calm for you where men and women Unroll the chill precision of moving feet.
Allen Tate
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Men expect too much, do too little.
Allen Tate
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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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So the dubbed conceit Played nursery of cheat To clear the I of sleet.
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Let us begin to understand the argument. There is a solution to everything: Science.
Allen Tate
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The only real evidence that any critic may bring before his gaze is the finished poem.
Allen Tate