Ode to the Confederate Dead
　　by Allen Tate
　　 Row after row with strict impunity

　　 The headstones yield their names to the element，

　　 The wind whirrs without recollection；

　　 In the riven troughs the splayed leaves

　　 Pile up， of nature the casual sacrament

　　 To the seasonal eternity of death；

　　 Then driven by the fierce scrutiny

　　 Of heaven to their election in the vast breath，

　　 They sough the rumour of mortality.

　　 Autumn is desolation in the plot

　　 Of a thousand acres where these memories grow

　　 From the inexhaustible bodies that are not

　　 Dead， but feed the grass row after rich row.

　　 Think of the autumns that have come and gone！

　　 Ambitious November with the humors of the year，

　　 With a particular zeal for every slab，

　　 Staining the uncomfortable angels that rot

　　 On the slabs， a wing chipped here， an arm there：

　　 The brute curiosity of an angel's stare

　　 Turns you， like them， to stone，

　　 Transforms the heaving air

　　 Till plunged to a heavier world below

　　 You shift your sea-space blindly

　　 Heaving， turning like the blind crab.

　　 Dazed by the wind， only the wind

　　 The leaves flying， plunge

　　 You know who have waited by the wall

　　 The twilight certainty of an animal，

　　 Those midnight restitutions of the blood

　　 You know the immitigable pines， the smoky frieze

　　 Of the sky， the sudden call： you know the rage，

　　 The cold pool left by the mounting flood，

　　 Of muted Zeno and Parmenides.

　　 You who have waited for the angry resolution

　　 Of those desires that should be yours tomorrow，

　　 You know the unimportant shrift of death

　　 And praise the vision

　　 And praise the arrogant circumstance

　　 Of those who fall

　　 Rank upon rank， hurried beyond decision

　　 Here by the sagging gate， stopped by the wall.

　　 Seeing， seeing only the leaves

　　 Flying， plunge and expire

　　 Turn your eyes to the immoderate past，

　　 Turn to the inscrutable infantry rising

　　 Demons out of the earth they will not last.

　　 Stonewall， Stonewall， and the sunken fields of hemp，

　　 Shiloh， Antietam， Malvern Hill， Bull Run.

　　 Lost in that orient of the thick and fast

　　 You will curse the setting sun.

　　 Cursing only the leaves crying

　　 Like an old man in a storm

　　 You hear the shout， the crazy hemlocks point

　　 With troubled fingers to the silence which

　　 Smothers you， a mummy， in time.

　　 The hound bitch

　　 Toothless and dying， in a musty cellar

　　 Hears the wind only.

　　 Now that the salt of their blood

　　 Stiffens the saltier oblivion of the sea，

　　 Seals the malignant purity of the flood，

　　 What shall we who count our days and bow

　　 Our heads with a commemorial woe

　　 In the ribboned coats of grim felicity，

　　 What shall we say of the bones， unclean，

　　 Whose verdurous anonymity will grow？

　　 The ragged arms， the ragged heads and eyes

　　 Lost in these acres of the insane green？

　　 The gray lean spiders come， they come and go；

　　 In a tangle of willows without light

　　 The singular screech-owl's tight

　　 Invisible lyric seeds the mind

　　 With the furious murmur of their chivalry.

　　 We shall say only the leaves

　　 Flying， plunge and expire

　　 We shall say only the leaves whispering

　　 In the improbable mist of nightfall

　　 That flies on multiple wing：

　　 Night is the beginning and the end

　　 And in between the ends of distraction

　　 Waits mute speculation， the patient curse

　　 That stones the eyes， or like the jaguar leaps

　　 For his own image in a jungle pool， his victim.

　　 What shall we say who have knowledge

　　 Carried to the heart？ Shall we take the act

　　 To the grave？ Shall we， more hopeful， set up the grave

　　 In the house？ The ravenous grave？

　　 Leave now

　　 The shut gate and the decomposing wall：

　　 The gentle serpent， green in the mulberry bush，

　　 Riots with his tongue through the hush

　　 Sentinel of the grave who counts us all！