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Best Famous Mystery Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Mystery poems. This is a select list of the best famous Mystery poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Mystery poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of mystery poems.

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See also: Best Member Poems

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by Maya Angelou | |

Rememberance

Your hands easy
weight, teasing the bees
hived in my hair, your smile at the
slope of my cheek.
On the occasion, you press above me, glowing, spouting readiness, mystery rapes my reason When you have withdrawn your self and the magic, when only the smell of your love lingers between my breasts, then, only then, can I greedily consume your presence.


by Frank O'Hara | |

Poem

The clouds ache bleakly
and when they can manage it 
crush someone's head in
without a sound of anger.
This is a brutal mystery.
We meet in the streets with our hands in our pockets and snarl guiltily at each other as if we had flayed a cloud or two in our salad days.
Lots of things do blame us; and in moments when I forget how cruel we really should be I often have to bite my tongue to keep from being guilty.


by John Donne | |

The Funeral

WHOEVER comes to shroud me do not harm 
Nor question much 
That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm; 
The mystery the sign you must not touch  
For 'tis my outward soul 5 
Viceroy to that which unto heav'n being gone  
Will leave this to control 
And keep these limbs her provinces from dissolution.
For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Through every part 10 Can tie those parts and make me one of all; Those hairs which upward grew and strength and art Have from a better brain Can better do 't: except she meant that I By this should know my pain 15 As prisoners then are manacled when they're condemn'd to die.
Whate'er she meant by 't bury it with me For since I am Love's martyr it might breed idolatry If into other hands these reliques came.
20 As 'twas humility T' afford to it all that a soul can do So 'tis some bravery That since you would have none of me I bury some of you.


by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

enter no(silence is the blood whose flesh

enter no(silence is the blood whose flesh
is singing)silence:but unsinging.
In spectral such hugest how hush,one dead leaf stirring makes a crash -far away(as far as alive)lies april;and i breathe-move-and-seem some perpetually roaming whylessness- autumn has gone:will winter never come? o come,terrible anonymity;enfold phantom me with the murdering minus of cold -open this ghost with millionary knives of wind- scatter his nothing all over what angry skies and gently (very whiteness:absolute peace, never imaginable mystery) descend


by Jerome Rothenberg | |

A MISSAL LIKE A BONE

 Link by link
I can disown
no link.
(R.
Duncan) I search the passage someone sends & find a missal like a bone.
My hands are white with sweat.
I lay my burden down the ground below me shrinking.
The more my fingers ply these keys the more words daunt me.
I am what a haunt averts, what you who once spoke from my dream no longer tell.
The book is paradise.
An odor is a clue to what was lost.
I seek & speak son of a father with no home or heart.
I bantereed with a friend that there are speeds beyond the speed of light.
I spun around.
the calculus of two plus two, the mystery of false attachments, still persists.
I settled for a lesser light a circumstance found that my words rang true.


by William Henry Davies | |

The Dark Hour

 And now, when merry winds do blow, 
And rain makes trees look fresh, 
An overpowering staleness holds 
This mortal flesh.
Though well I love to feel the rain, And be by winds well blown -- The mystery of mortal life Doth press me down.
And, In this mood, come now what will, Shine Rainbow, Cuckoo call; There is no thing in Heaven or Earth Can lift my soul.
I know not where this state comes from -- No cause for grief I know; The Earth around is fresh and green, Flowers near me grow.
I sit between two fair rose trees; Red roses on my right, And on my left side roses are A lovely white.
The little birds are full of joy, Lambs bleating all the day; The colt runs after the old mare, And children play.
And still there comes this dark, dark hour -- Which is not borne of Care; Into my heart it creeps before I am aware.


by Helen Hunt Jackson | |

To an Absent Lover

 That so much change should come when thou dost go, 
Is mystery that I cannot ravel quite.
The very house seems dark as when the light Of lamps goes out.
Each wonted thing doth grow So altered, that I wander to and fro Bewildered by the most familiar sight, And feel like one who rouses in the night From dream of ecstasy, and cannot know At first if he be sleeping or awake.
My foolish heart so foolish for thy sake Hath grown, dear one! Teach me to be more wise.
I blush for all my foolishness doth lack; I fear to seem a coward in thine eyes.
Teach me, dear one,--but first thou must come back!


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

For Ariva

 You Eyes, you large and all-inquiring Eyes.
That look so dubiously into me, And are not satisfied with what you see, Tell me the worst and let us have no lies: Tell me the meaning of your scrutinies.
And of myself.
Am I a Mystery? Am I a Boojum--or just Company? What do you say? What do you think, You Eyes? You say not; but you think, without a doubt; And you have the whole world to think about, With very little time for little things.
So let it be; and let it all be fair-- For you, and for the rest who cannot share Your gold of unrevealed awakenings.


by George William Russell | |

Unity

 ONE thing in all things have I seen:
One thought has haunted earth and air:
Clangour and silence both have been
Its palace chambers.
Everywhere I saw the mystic vision flow And live in men and woods and streams, Until I could no longer know The dream of life from my own dreams.
Sometimes it rose like fire in me Within the depths of my own mind, And spreading to infinity, It took the voices of the wind: It scrawled the human mystery— Dim heraldry—on light and air; Wavering along the starry sea I saw the flying vision there.
Each fire that in God’s temple lit Burns fierce before the inner shrine, Dimmed as my fire grew near to it And darkened at the light of mine.
At last, at last, the meaning caught— The spirit wears its diadem; It shakes its wondrous plumes of thought And trails the stars along with them.


by George William Russell | |

A Leader

 THOUGH your eyes with tears were blind,
Pain upon the path you trod:
Well we knew, the hosts behind,
Voice and shining of a god.
For your darkness was our day: Signal fires, your pains untold Lit us on our wandering way To the mystic heart of gold.
Naught we knew of the high land, Beauty burning in its spheres; Sorrow we could understand And the mystery told in tears.


by George William Russell | |

Illusion

 WHAT is the love of shadowy lips
That know not what they seek or press,
From whom the lure for ever slips
And fails their phantom tenderness?


The mystery and light of eyes
That near to mine grow dim and cold;
They move afar in ancient skies
Mid flame and mystic darkness rolled.
O beauty, as thy heart o’erflows In tender yielding unto me, A vast desire awakes and grows Unto forgetfulness of thee.


by George William Russell | |

Janus

 IMAGE of beauty, when I gaze on thee,
Trembling I waken to a mystery,
How through one door we go to life or death
By spirit kindled or the sensual breath.
Image of beauty, when my way I go; No single joy or sorrow do I know: Elate for freedom leaps the starry power, The life which passes mourns its wasted hour.
And, ah, to think how thin the veil that lies Between the pain of hell and paradise! Where the cool grass my aching head embowers God sings the lovely carol of the flowers.


by David Herbert Lawrence | |

Giorno dei Morti

 Along the avenue of cypresses, 
All in their scarlet cloaks and surplices 
Of linen, go the chanting choristers, 
The priests in gold and black, the villagers.
.
.
And all along the path to the cemetery The round dark heads of men crowd silently, And black-scarved faces of womenfolk, wistfully Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.
And at the foot of a grave a father stands With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands; And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels With pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels The coming of the chanting choristers Between the avenue of cypresses, The silence of the many villagers, The candle-flames beside the surplices.


by David Herbert Lawrence | |

Mystery

 Now I am all
One bowl of kisses,
Such as the tall
Slim votaresses
Of Egypt filled
For a God's excesses.
I lift to you My bowl of kisses, And through the temple's Blue recesses Cry out to you In wild caresses.
And to my lips' Bright crimson rim The passion slips, And down my slim White body drips The shining hymn.
And still before The altar I Exult the bowl Brimful, and cry To you to stoop And drink, Most High.
Oh drink me up That I may be Within your cup Like a Mystery, Like wine that is still In ecstasy.
Glimmering still In ecstasy, Commingled wines Of you and me In One fulfill,.
.
.
The Mystery.


by David Herbert Lawrence | |

We are Transmitters

 As we live, we are transmitters of life.
And when we fail to transmit life, life fails to flow through us.
That is part of the mystery of sex, it is a flow onwards.
Sexless people transmit nothing.
And if, as we work, we can transmit life into our work, life, still more life, rushes into us to compensate, to be ready and we ripple with life through the days.
Even if it is a woman making an apple dumpling, or a man a stool, if life goes into the pudding, good is the pudding good is the stool, content is the woman, with fresh life rippling in to her, content is the man.
Give, and it shall be given unto you is still the truth about life.
But giving life is not so easy.
It doesn't mean handing it out to some mean fool, or letting the living dead eat you up.
It means kindling the life-quality where it was not, even if it's only in the whiteness of a washed pocket-handkerchief.


by David Herbert Lawrence | |

Service of all the Dead

 Between the avenues of cypresses, 
All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices 
Of linen, go the chaunting choristers, 
The priests in gold and black, the villagers.
And all along the path to the cemetery The round, dark heads of men crowd silently And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.
And at the foot of a grave a father stands With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands; And at the foot of a grave a woman kneels With pale shut face, and neither hears not feels The coming of the chaunting choristers Between the avenues of cypresses, The silence of the many villagers, The candle-flames beside the surplices.


by Walter de la Mare | |

How Sleep the Brave

 Nay, nay, sweet England, do not grieve! 
Not one of these poor men who died 
But did within his soul believe 
That death for thee was glorified.
Ever they watched it hovering near That mystery 'yond thought to plumb, Perchance sometimes in loathèd fear They heard cold Danger whisper, Come! -- Heard and obeyed.
O, if thou weep Such courage and honour, beauty, care, Be it for joy that those who sleep Only thy joy could share.


by Ellis Parker Butler | |

Bird Nesting

 O wonderful! In sport we climbed the tree,
Eager and laughing, as in all our play,
To see the eggs where, in the nest, they lay,
But silent fell before the mystery.
For, one brief moment there, we understood By sudden sympathy too fine for words That we were sisters to the brooding birds And part, with them, in God’s great motherhood.


by Sir John Suckling | |

I prithee send me back my heart

 I prithee send me back my heart,
Since I cannot have thine;
For if from yours you will not part,
Why, then, shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie,
To find it were in vain;
For thou hast a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.
Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together? O Love! where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts thou sever? But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am in most doubt.
Then farewell care, and farewell woe; I will no longer pine; For I'll believe I have her heart, As much as she hath mine.


by Christian Bobin | |

untitled

Into the crucible of my solitude, 
you enter like the dawn, you surge forward like fire.
You sweep into my soul like a river bursting its banks.
And your laughter floods all my lands.
When I looked deep inside myself, I found nothing: there, where everything was dark, a huge sun was turning.
There where everything was dead, a small spring was dancing.
A tiny woman who took up so much space: I could not believe it.
Love is the only true knowledge.
Love itself is an impenetrable mystery.
Christian Bobin (translated by C.
Johnston)