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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.

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
Hell
Nakedness
Heard
Blake
Heaven
Cursed
Woman
William
Tell
Title
Work
Titles
Clod
Flesh
Moderns
Marriage
Sayings

More quotes by Allen Tate

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The only real evidence that any critic may bring before his gaze is the finished poem.
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There's precious little to say between day and dark, Perhaps a few words on the implacable will Of time sailing like a magic barque Or something as fine for the amenities.
Allen Tate
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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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Row after row with strict impunity The headstones yield their names to the element, The wind whirrs without recollection.
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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.
Allen Tate
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The poet is he who fights on the passionate Side and whoever loses he wins when he Is defeated it is hard to say who wins.
Allen Tate
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For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain.
Allen Tate
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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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All the sea-gods are dead. You, Venus, come home To your salt maidenhead.
Allen Tate
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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.
Allen Tate
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So face with calm that heritage And earn contempt before the age.
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Genetic theories, I gather, have been cherished academically with detachment.
Allen Tate
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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 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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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.
Allen Tate
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What is the poem, after it is written? That is the question. Not where it came from or why.
Allen Tate
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My darling boy whom I shall never know, My son, I love you in my deepest fears.
Allen Tate
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Our loss put six feet under ground Is measured by the magnolia's root Our gain's the intellectual sound Of death's feet round a weedy tomb.
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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We are afraid that we have not lived. We are not afraid of dying.
Allen Tate