Quote

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.

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
Running
Hail
Like
Precise
Sunset
Pale
Towering
Runs
Whistle
Driven
Lane
Weak
Dusk
Dark
Lanes

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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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I say that what one loves is best: The midnight fastness of the heart.
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Death's long anabasis.
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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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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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What was I saying? An Egyptian king Once touched long fingers, which are not anything.
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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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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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Religion is the sole technique for the validating of values.
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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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There is a calm for you where men and women Unroll the chill precision of moving feet.
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The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!
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