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A Poem: Allen Tate Responds to Wallace Stevens’s Claim that the Poet is an Angel 

You want us to be angels. I refuse.
An angel condescends to smaller things:
The humming television, seasons, booze,
The throbbing of the muscles in our wings.
These angels think they’ve always been above
The spitting heave, the upward thrust of life.
No, angels send their poems with a dove
Whose heart has been dissected with a knife.

While sitting down, we sigh into a soar.
We take the small we know and make it sky,
We disappear into our living chore,
We shout: “We should go higher! We should die.”
O then, that day, an angel will you see!
See angels angeling up, see angels, me?

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Speaking of Angels, sky

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