Quote

Last night I fled until I came To streets where leaking casements dripped Stale lamplight from the corpse of flame A nervous window bled.

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
Flames
Dripped
Nervous
Bled
Window
Leaking
Streets
Fled
Came
Corpse
Lasts
Stale
Last
Corpses
Night
Flame
Lamplight

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Experience means conflict, our natures being what they are, and conflict means drama.
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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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We know the particular poem, not what it says that we can restate.
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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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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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Walk in this faithless grass with studious tread, Lest mice, weasels, germane beasts, too soon The tall hat and eyes, the fierce feet, for dead Descry, and fix you prone in their revelling moon.
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I thought I heard the dark pounding its head On a rock, crying: Who are the dead?
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Genetic theories, I gather, have been cherished academically with detachment.
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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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All the sea-gods are dead. You, Venus, come home To your salt maidenhead.
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I have felt darkness lead me by the hand Over the hill to greet the singing dawn.
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Dark accurate plunger down the successive knell Of arch on arch, where ogives burst a red Reverberance of hail upon the dead Thunder like an exploding crucible!
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