Allen Tate

Allen Tate

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John Orley Allen Tate (November 19, 1899 – February 9, 1979), known professionally as Allen Tate, was an American poet, essayist, social commentator, and Poet Laureate from 1943 to 1944.
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More Sonnets At Christmas I

To Denis
Again the native hour lets down the
Uncombed and black, but gray the bobbing beard;
Ten years ago His eyes, fierce shuttlecocks,
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Inside And Outside

Now twenty-four or maybe
Was the woman's age, and her white brow was sleek;
Lips parted in surprise, the flawless cheek;
The long brown hair coiled sullenly alive;
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Sonnets Of The Blood VII

This message hastens lest we both go
Scattered, with no character, to death;
Death is untutored, with an ignorant
For precious identities of breath
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The Meaning Of Life

Think about it at will: there is
Which is the commentary; there's that other,
Which may be called the
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The Mediterranean

Quem das finem, rex magne, dolorum
Where we went in the boat was a long bayA slingshot wide, walled in by towering stone—Peaked margin of antiquity's delay,
And we went there out of time's monotone:
Where we went in the black hull n...
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Ignis Fatuus

In the twilight of my audacityI saw you flee the world, the burnt
Of summer gave up their light:
Followed you with the uncommon
Of fear-supported and disbursed eyes
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To A Romantic

To Robert Penn
You hold your eager
Too high in the air, you
As if the sleepy
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Horatian Epode To The Duchess Of Malfi

Who am I
Thou art a box of worm-seed, at best but asalvatory of green mummy
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Farewell To Anactoria

(Sappho)Never the tramp of foot or horse,
Nor lusty cries from ship at sea,
Shall I call loveliest on the dark earth-My heart moves lovingly
I say that what one loves is best:
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The Ancestors

When the night's coming and the last light fallsA weak child among lost shadows on the floor,
It is your listening: pulse heeds the
Of fore and after, wind shivers the door
What masterful delay commands the
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Mr Pope

When Alexander Pope strolled in the
Strict was the glint of pearl and ''old sedans
Ladies leaned out more out of fear than
For Pope's tight back was rather a goat's than
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Mother And Son

Now all day long the man who is not
Hastens the dark with inattentive eyes,
The woman with white hand and erect
Stares at the covers, leans for the son's
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The Wolves

There are wolves in the next room
With heads bent low, thrust out,
At nothing in the dark; between them and meA white door patched with light from the
Where it seems never (so still is the house)A man has walked from the front door ...
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The Paradigm

For when they meet, the tensile
Like fine steel strains under the
Of messages that both hearts bear-Pure passion once, now purest hate;
Till the taut air like a cold
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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
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To The Romantic Traditionists

I have looked at them long,
My eyes blur; sourceless
Keeps them forever
Before our ageing sight
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