Quotes About Mystery

Because after a time having a secret and nobody knowing you have a secret is no fun. And although you don't want others to know what the secret is, you want them to at least know you have one.

Time cannot children,poets,lovers tell- measure imagine,mystery,a kiss -not though mankind would rather know than feel

And now you are and I am and we're a mystery which will never happen again.

in time of daffodils(who know the goal of living is to grow) forgetting why,remember how in time of lilacs who proclaim the aim of waking is to dream, remember so(forgetting seem) in time of roses(who amaze our now and here with paradise) forgetting if,remember yes in time of all sweet things beyond whatever mind may comprehend, remember seek(forgetting find) and in a mystery to be (when time from time shall set us free) forgetting me,remember me

You are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing.

in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems

love being such, or such, the normal corners of your heart will never guess how much my wonderful jealousy is dark

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence; in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near

n OthI n g can s urPas s the m y SteR y of s tilLnes s

For surely as each November has its April, mysteries only are significant; and one mystery-of-mysteries creates them all: nothing false and possible is love (who's imagined,therefore limitless) love's to giving as to keeping's give; as yes is to if,love is to yes

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

we're a mystery which will never happen again, a miracle which has never happened before...

When skies are hanged and oceans drowned, the single secret will still be man.

what if a much of a which of a wind

i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.

i will wade out till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air Alive with closed eyes to dash against darkness in the sleeping curves of my body Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery with chasteness of sea-girls Will i complete the mystery of my flesh I will rise After a thousand years lipping flowers And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

Querying greys between mouthed houses curl thirstily. Dead stars stink. dawn. Inane, the poetic carcass of a girl

And now you are and i am now and we're a mystery that will never happen again, a miracle which has never happened before.

5 n w O h S LoW h myGODye s s

here's to one undiscoverable guess of whose mad skill each world of blood is made (whose fatal songs are moving in the moon

And what if neutrinos in their uncountable multitudinous dark-matteredness gravitationally directing the universe . . . are the souls of the dead?

We had a joke, Langley and I: Someone dying asks if there is life after death. Yes, comes the answer, only not yours.

Es una especie de cárcel, la mente del cerebro. Tenemos estos misteriosos cerebros de mil trescientos gramos, y nos encarcelan.

If there is a religious agency in our lives, it has to appear in the manner of our times. Not from on high, but a revelation that hides itself in our culture, it will be ground-level, on the street, it'll be coming down the avenue in the traffic, hard to tell apart from anything else.