To The Romantic Traditionists
I have looked at them long,
My eyes blur; sourceless
Keeps them forever
Before our ageing sight.
You see them-too strict
Of will, the secret
Of our dissolute storms;
They grow too bright to be.
What were they like?
What
Can signify their charm?
They never saw the dark;
Rigid, they never knew alarm.
Do not the scene rehearse!
The perfect eyes enjoinA contemptuous verse;
We speak the crabbed line.
Immaculate race! to
Us final knowledge
In a cold frieze, a
Of war but no blood let.
Are they quite willing,
Do they ask to pose,
Naked and simple,
The very wind's nose?
They ask us how to live!
We answer:
Again
Being the drops we sieve.
What death it is to die!
Therefore because they nod,
Being too full of us,
I look at the turned
Where it is
And yawning all the
As if we knew them
And history had no name-No need to name the spot!
Allen Tate
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