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Famous Short Mystery Poems. Short Mystery Poetry by Famous Poets

Famous Short Mystery Poems. Short Mystery Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Mystery short poems

See also: Best Famous Short Poems | Short Member Poems | Best Short Member Poems | Top 100 Famous Short Poems

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by Emily Dickinson

Lad of Athens faithful be

 Lad of Athens, faithful be
To Thyself,
And Mystery --
All the rest is Perjury --


by Emily Dickinson

Sunset that screens reveals --

 Sunset that screens, reveals --
Enhancing what we see
By menaces of Amethyst
And Moats of Mystery.


by Emily Dickinson

Pass to they Rendezvous of Light

 Pass to they Rendezvous of Light,
Pangless except for us --
Who slowly for the Mystery
Which thou hast leaped across!


by Tony Harrison

Heredity

 How you became a poet's a mystery!
Wherever did you get your talent from?

I say: I had two uncles, Joe and Harry-
one was a stammerer, the other dumb.


by Emily Dickinson

Yesterday is History

 Yesterday is History,
'Tis so far away --
Yesterday is Poetry --
'Tis Philosophy --

Yesterday is mystery --
Where it is Today
While we shrewdly speculate
Flutter both away


by Edward Lear

There was a young person whose history

There was a young person whose history
Was always considered a mystery;
She sate in a ditch, although no one knew which,
And composed a small treatise on history.


by Marina Tsvetaeva

Girlfriend

 "I will not part! -- There is no end!" She clings and clings.
.
.
And in the breast -- the rise Of threatening waters, Of notes.
.
.
Steadfast: like an immutable Mystery: we will part!


by Emily Dickinson

No Life can pompless pass away --

 No Life can pompless pass away --
The lowliest career
To the same Pageant wends its way
As that exalted here --

How cordial is the mystery!
The hospitable Pall
A "this way" beckons spaciously --
A Miracle for all!


by Emily Dickinson

From Us She wandered now a Year

 From Us She wandered now a Year,
Her tarrying, unknown,
If Wilderness prevent her feet
Or that Ethereal Zone

No eye hath seen and lived
We ignorant must be --
We only know what time of Year
We took the Mystery.


by Dejan Stojanovic

Imperfection

Trying too hard to be too good, 
Even when trying to be bad, 
Is too good for the bad 
Too bad for the good.
Perfection seems sterile; It is final, no mystery in it; It's a product of an assembly line.
To accomplish the perfect perfection, A little imperfection helps.


by Emily Dickinson

This -- is the land -- the Sunset washes

 This -- is the land -- the Sunset washes --
These -- are the Banks of the Yellow Sea --
Where it rose -- or whither it rushes --
These -- are the Western Mystery!

Night after Night
Her purple traffic
Strews the landing with Opal Bales --
Merchantmen -- poise upon Horizons --
Dip -- and vanish like Orioles!


by Siegfried Sassoon

Morning-Land

 Old English songs, you bring to me 
A simple sweetness somewhat kin 
To birds that through the mystery 
Of earliest morn make tuneful din, 
While hamlet steeples sleepily
At cock-crow chime out three and four, 
Till maids get up betime and go 
With faces like the red sun low 
Clattering about the dairy floor.


by Vachel Lindsay

Ghosts in Love

 "Tell me, where do ghosts in love 
Find their bridal veils?" 

"If you and I were ghosts in love 
We'd climb the cliffs of Mystery, 
Above the sea of Wails.
I'd trim your gray and streaming hair With veils of Fantasy From the tree of Memory.
'Tis there the ghosts that fall in love Find their bridal veils.
"


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 Maya Angelou

Remembrance

 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 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 Vachel Lindsay

What the Coal-Heaver Said

 The moon's an open furnace door
Where all can see the blast,
We shovel in our blackest griefs,
Upon that grate are cast
Our aching burdens, loves and fears
And underneath them wait
Paper and tar and pitch and pine
Called strife and blood and hate.
Out of it all there comes a flame, A splendid widening light.
Sorrow is turned to mystery And Death into delight.


by Denise Levertov

On the Mystery of the Incarnation

 It's when we face for a moment
the worst our kind can do, and shudder to know
the taint in our own selves, that awe
cracks the mind's shell and enters the heart:
not to a flower, not to a dolphin,
to no innocent form
but to this creature vainly sure
it and no other is god-like, God
(out of compassion for our ugly
failure to evolve) entrusts,
as guest, as brother,
the Word.


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 Elinor Wylie

Cold-Blooded Creatures

 Man, the egregious egoist
(In mystery the twig is bent)
Imagines, by some mental twist,
That he alone is sentient

Of the intolerable load
That on all living creatures lies,
Nor stoops to pity in the toad
The speechless sorrow of his eyes.
He asks no questions of the snake, Nor plumbs the phosphorescent gloom Where lidless fishes, broad awake, Swim staring at a nightmare doom.


by Aleister Crowley

Thanatos Basileos

 The serpent dips his head beneath the sea
His mother, source of all his energy
Eternal, thence to draw the strength he needs
On earth to do indomitable dees
Once more; and they, who saw but understood
Naught of his nature of beatitude
Were awed: they murmured with abated breath;
Alas the Master; so he sinks in death.
But whoso knows the mystery of man Sees life and death as curves of one same plan.


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 William Butler Yeats

The Magi

 Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye,
In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones
Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky
With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,
And all their helms of Silver hovering side by side,
And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,
Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied,
The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.


by William Butler Yeats

Who Goes With Fergus?

 Who will go drive with Fergus now,
And pierce the deep wood's woven shade,
And dance upon the level shore?
Young man, lift up your russet brow,
And lift your tender eyelids, maid,
And brood on hopes and fear no more.
And no more turn aside and brood Upon love's bitter mystery; For Fergus rules the brazen cars, And rules the shadows of the wood, And the white breast of the dim sea And all dishevelled wandering stars.


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.


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