Quotes by Allen Tate
Uncle Ben's brass bullet-mould And powder horn, and Major Bogan's face...
We are afraid that we have not lived. We are not afraid of dying.
This girl borrowed no dim light of a star Nor ever night held her in a dark mesh,...
The poisoned rat in the wall Cuts through the wall like a knife,...
the quicksilver art Throws back the invisible but lightning mass...
When I have reached the shady underground With but sad hope of coming up again,...
There at the church they took him through the door, His sweet wide mouth much as it was before,...
"The god has not yet answered to our pity For the black vision and tangle in her brains,...
The graceless madness of her lips, Who was the powder-puff of life,...
So you, O nameless Duchess who die young, Meet death somewhat lovingly...
The times have changed. Why do you make a fuss For privilege when there's no law of form?
When little boys grown patient at last, weary, Surrender their eyes immeasurably to the night,...
Then one will say, 'He is not dead, maybe, Who was mortality's unshaken lover...
While the body's life, deep as a covered well, Instinctive as the wind, busy as May, Burns out a secret passageway to hell.
They darted down and rose up like a wave Or buzzed impetuously as before;...
What shall we say who have knowledge Carried to the heart? Shall we take the act...
The flies swarmed on the putrid vulva, then A black tumbling rout would seethe Of maggots, thick like a torrent in a glen....
turn round look at the violet finger (not touching it)...
When Gabriel's trumpet ends all life's delay, Will crash the beams of firmamental woe:...
Speak, then, my Beauty, to this dire putrescence, To the worm that shall kiss your proud estate,...
Say never the strong heart In the consuming breath Cries out unto the dark The skinny death.
Turn back. Turn, young lady dear A murderer's house you enter here I was wooed and won little bird
This is the man who classified the bits Of his friends' hells into a pigeonhole—...
The gentle serpent, green in the mulberry bush, Riots with his tongue through the hush— Sentinel of the grave who counts us all!
I wear my wedding ring He will cut off your finger And the blood will linger Little bird!
