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Best Famous Identity Poems

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

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by Philip Larkin | |

The Little Lives Of Earth And Form

 The little lives of earth and form,
Of finding food, and keeping warm,
 Are not like ours, and yet
A kinship lingers nonetheless:
We hanker for the homeliness
 Of den, and hole, and set.
And this identity we feel - Perhaps not right, perhaps not real - Will link us constantly; I see the rock, the clay, the chalk, The flattened grass, the swaying stalk, And it is you I see.


by Laura Riding Jackson | |

With The Face

 With the face goes a mirror
As with the mind a world.
Likeness tells the doubting eye That strangeness is not strange.
At an early hour and knowledge Identity not yet familiar Looks back upon itself from later, And seems itself.
To-day seems now.
With reality-to-be goes time.
With the mind goes a world.
Wit the heart goes a weather.
With the face goes a mirror As with the body a fear.
Young self goes staring to the wall Where dumb futurity speaks calm, And between then and then Forebeing grows of age.
The mirror mixes with the eye.
Soon will it be the very eye.
Soon will the eye that was The very mirror be.
Death, the final image, will shine Transparently not otherwise Than as the dark sun described With such faint brightnesses.


by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Essence

"When you play cards in the way of true love, your are defeated by yourself, you cannot blame anyone else, love does not hide identity, when it is existed, it lightens the all sides, nowhere is darkness.
That is essence of true love.
" Ehsan Sehgal


by Walt Whitman | |

O Me! O Life!

 O ME! O life!.
.
.
of the questions of these recurring; Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish; Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d; Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me; Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined; The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life? Answer.
That you are here—that life exists, and identity; That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.


by Walt Whitman | |

Shut Not Your Doors andc.

 SHUT not your doors to me, proud libraries, 
For that which was lacking on all your well-fill’d shelves, yet needed most, I bring; 
Forth from the army, the war emerging—a book I have made, 
The words of my book nothing—the drift of it everything; 
A book separate, not link’d with the rest, nor felt by the intellect,
But you, ye untold latencies, will thrill to every page; 
Through Space and Time fused in a chant, and the flowing, eternal Identity, 
To Nature, encompassing these, encompassing God—to the joyous, electric All, 
To the sense of Death—and accepting, exulting in Death, in its turn, the same as life, 
The entrance of Man I sing.


by Seamus Heaney | |

Lovers on Aran

 The timeless waves, bright, sifting, broken glass,
Came dazzling around, into the rocks,
Came glinting, sifting from the Americas

To posess Aran.
Or did Aran rush to throw wide arms of rock around a tide That yielded with an ebb, with a soft crash? Did sea define the land or land the sea? Each drew new meaning from the waves' collision.
Sea broke on land to full identity.


by Craig Raine | |

Dandelions

 'and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence'
 -- George Eliot, Middlemarch


Dead dandelions, bald as drumsticks,
swaying by the roadside

like Hare Krishna pilgrims
bowing to the Juggernaut.
They have given up everything.
Gold gone and their silver gone, humbled with dust, hollow, their milky bodies tan to the colour of annas.
The wind changes their identity: slender Giacomettis, Doré's convicts, Rodin's burghers of Calais with five bowed heads and the weight of serrated keys .
.
.
They wither into mystery, waiting to find out why they are, patiently, before nirvana when the rain comes down like vitriol.


by Emily Dickinson | |

As One does Sickness over

 As One does Sickness over
In convalescent Mind,
His scrutiny of Chances
By blessed Health obscured --

As One rewalks a Precipice
And whittles at the Twig
That held Him from Perdition
Sown sidewise in the Crag

A Custom of the Soul
Far after suffering
Identity to question
For evidence't has been --


by Emily Dickinson | |

Nature and God -- I neither knew

 Nature and God -- I neither knew
Yet Both so well knew me
They startled, like Executors
Of My identity.
Yet Neither told -- that I could learn -- My Secret as secure As Herschel's private interest Or Mercury's affair --


by Emily Dickinson | |

Truth -- is as old as God --

 Truth -- is as old as God --
His Twin identity
And will endure as long as He
A Co-Eternity --

And perish on the Day
Himself is borne away
From Mansion of the Universe
A lifeless Deity.


by Emily Dickinson | |

Estranged from Beauty -- none can be --

 Estranged from Beauty -- none can be --
For Beauty is Infinity --
And power to be finite ceased
Before Identity was leased.


by Emily Dickinson | |

This Consciousness that is aware

 This Consciousness that is aware
Of Neighbors and the Sun
Will be the one aware of Death
And that itself alone

Is traversing the interval
Experience between
And most profound experiment
Appointed unto Men --

How adequate unto itself
Its properties shall be
Itself unto itself and none
Shall make discovery.
Adventure most unto itself The Soul condemned to be -- Attended by a single Hound Its own identity.


by Emily Dickinson | |

How firm Eternity must look

 How firm Eternity must look
To crumbling men like me
The only Adamant Estate
In all Identity --

How mighty to the insecure
Thy Physiognomy
To whom not any Face cohere --
Unless concealed in thee


by Emily Dickinson | |

The look of thee what is it like

 The look of thee, what is it like
Hast thou a hand or Foot
Or Mansion of Identity
And what is thy Pursuit?

Thy fellows are they realms or Themes
Hast thou Delight or Fear
Or Longing -- and is that for us
Or values more severe?

Let change transfuse all other Traits
Enact all other Blame
But deign this least certificate --
That thou shalt be the same.


by Emily Dickinson | |

That sacred Closet when you sweep --

 That sacred Closet when you sweep --
Entitled "Memory" --
Select a reverential Broom --
And do it silently.
'Twill be a Labor of surprise -- Besides Identity Of other Interlocutors A probability -- August the Dust of that Domain -- Unchallenged -- let it lie -- You cannot supersede itself But it can silence you --


by Emily Bronte | |

Oh For The Time When I Shall Sleep

 Oh, for the time when I shall sleep
Without identity,
And never care how rain may steep,
Or snow may cover me!
No promised heaven these wild desires
Could all, or half, fulful;
No threatened hell, with quenchless fires,
Subdue this quenchless will!

So said I, and still say the same;
Still, to my death, will say— 
Three gods within this little frame
Are warring night and day:
Heaven could not hold them all, and yet
They all are held in me;
And must be mine till I forget
My present entity!

Oh, for the time when in my breast
Their struggles will be o'er!
Oh, for the day when I shall rest,
And never suffer more!


by Mahmoud Darwish | |

Passport

 They did not recognize me in the shadows
That suck away my color in this Passport
And to them my wound was an exhibit
For a tourist Who loves to collect photographs
They did not recognize me,
Ah .
.
.
Don’t leave The palm of my hand without the sun Because the trees recognize me Don’t leave me pale like the moon! All the birds that followed my palm To the door of the distant airport All the wheatfields All the prisons All the white tombstones All the barbed Boundaries All the waving handkerchiefs All the eyes were with me, But they dropped them from my passport Stripped of my name and identity? On soil I nourished with my own hands? Today Job cried out Filling the sky: Don’t make and example of me again! Oh, gentlemen, Prophets, Don’t ask the trees for their names Don’t ask the valleys who their mother is >From my forehead bursts the sward of light And from my hand springs the water of the river All the hearts of the people are my identity So take away my passport!


by George Eliot | |

In a London Drawingroom

 The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke.
For view there are the houses opposite Cutting the sky with one long line of wall Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch Monotony of surface & of form Without a break to hang a guess upon.
No bird can make a shadow as it flies, For all is shadow, as in ways o'erhung By thickest canvass, where the golden rays Are clothed in hemp.
No figure lingering Pauses to feed the hunger of the eye Or rest a little on the lap of life.
All hurry on & look upon the ground, Or glance unmarking at the passers by The wheels are hurrying too, cabs, carriages All closed, in multiplied identity.
The world seems one huge prison-house & court Where men are punished at the slightest cost, With lowest rate of colour, warmth & joy.