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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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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
Men
Precision
Chill
Calm
Feet
Moving
Women

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What is the flesh and blood compounded ofBut a few moments in the life of time?This prowling of the cells, litigious love,Wears the long claw of flesh-arguing crime.
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Poets, in their way, are practical men they are interested in results.
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For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain.
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Experience means conflict, our natures being what they are, and conflict means drama.
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Last night I fled until I came To streets where leaking casements dripped Stale lamplight from the corpse of flame A nervous window bled.
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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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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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But in our age the appeal to authority is weak, and I am of my age.
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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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My darling boy whom I shall never know, My son, I love you in my deepest fears.
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Genetic theories, I gather, have been cherished academically with detachment.
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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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Let us begin to understand the argument. There is a solution to everything: Science.
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What was I saying? An Egyptian king Once touched long fingers, which are not anything.
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Men cannot live forever But they must die forever.
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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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But we shall not know the world by looking at it we know it by looking at the hovering fly.
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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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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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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.
Allen Tate