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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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Genetic theories, I gather, have been cherished academically with detachment.
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The only real evidence that any critic may bring before his gaze is the finished poem.
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All the sea-gods are dead. You, Venus, come home To your salt maidenhead.
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So the dubbed conceit Played nursery of cheat To clear the I of sleet.
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The dusk runs down the lane driven like hail Far off a precise whistle is escheat To the dark and then the towering weak and pale.
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Death's long anabasis.
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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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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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Men expect too much, do too little.
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Yevgeny Yevtushenko is a ham actor, not a poet.
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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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Religion is the sole technique for the validating of values.
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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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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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Men cannot live forever But they must die forever.
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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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we know our end A packet of worm-seed, a garden of spent tissues.
Allen Tate
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The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!
Allen Tate
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We know the particular poem, not what it says that we can restate.
Allen Tate
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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.
Allen Tate