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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.
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
Stills
Idiot
Greens
Still
Dog
Meadows
Lies
Bark
Bulge
Eyes
Creeps
Hammock
Lying
Hill
Barks
Eye
Swings
Hammocks
Three
Cows
Implacable
Two
Hills
Meadow
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Yevgeny Yevtushenko is a ham actor, not a poet.
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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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Experience means conflict, our natures being what they are, and conflict means drama.
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Good manners, Madam, are had these days not For your asking, nor mine, nor what-we-used-to-be's. The day is a loud grenade that bursts a smile Of serious weeds in a comic lily plot.
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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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we know our end A packet of worm-seed, a garden of spent tissues.
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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.
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Men expect too much, do too little.
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The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!
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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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Poets, in their way, are practical men they are interested in results.
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A poem may be an instance of morality, of social conditions, of psychological history it may instance all its qualities, but never one of them alone, nor any two or three never less than all.
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There is probably nothing wrong with art for art's sake if we take the phrase seriously, and not take it to mean the kind of poetry written in England forty years ago.
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Serious poetry deals with the fundamental conflicts that cannot be logically resolved: we can state the conflicts rationally, but reason does not relieve us of them.
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Death's long anabasis.
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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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Punctilious abyss, the yawn of space Come once a day to suffocate the sight.
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Genetic theories, I gather, have been cherished academically with detachment.
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