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In the cold morning the rested street stands up To greet the clerk who saunters down the world.

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
Greet
Clerks
Stands
Street
Streets
Cold
Morning
Clerk
World
Rested

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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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Punctilious abyss, the yawn of space Come once a day to suffocate the sight.
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The twilight is long fingers and black hair.
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Swimmer of noonday, lean for the perfect dive To the dead Mother's face, whose subtile down You had not seen take amber light alive.
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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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The Spring I seek is in a new face only.
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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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Venus knows country matters: country knows Venus: For Love, Dione's boy, was born on the farm.
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Poets, in their way, are practical men they are interested in results.
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I say that what one loves is best: The midnight fastness of the heart.
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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.
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So the poet, who wants to be something that he cannot be, and is a failure in plain life, makes up fictitious versions of his predicament that are interesting even to other persons because nobody is a perfect automobile salesman.
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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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Death's long anabasis.
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I believe the term modulation denotes in music the uninterrupted shift from one key to another: I do not know the term for change of rhythm without change of measure.
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Genetic theories, I gather, have been cherished academically with detachment.
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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.
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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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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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