Have you ever found yourself questioning the very nature of truth?
Here are 10 eye-opening poems that delve deep into the nature of truth, each offering fresh perspectives that will resonate with your own experiences.
These verses challenge our perceptions and invite us to reflect on how truth shapes our relationships and our understanding of ourselves.
Let’s dive in!
My favorite poem about truth
#1 “XXVIII [“Truth,” said a traveller]” by Stephen Crane
“Truth,” said a traveller,
“Is a rock, a mighty fortress;
“Often have I been to it,
“Even to its highest tower,
“From whence the world looks black.”
“Truth,” said a traveller,
“Is a breath, a wind,
“A shadow, a phantom;
“Long have I pursued it,
“But never have I touched
“The hem of its garment.”
And I believed the second traveller;
For truth was to me
A breath, a wind,
A shadow, a phantom,
And never had I touched
The hem of its garment.
I really connect with this poem because it captures the different ways we all see truth.
The first traveler views truth as something solid and attainable, while the second sees it as something elusive and intangible, which reflects my own struggles to understand it.
This contrast makes me think about how our perceptions shape our relationship with truth in our everyday lives.
9 more poems about truth
#2 “The Truth” by Archibald Lampman
Friend, though thy soul should burn thee, yet be still.
Thoughts were not meant for strife, nor tongues for swords.
He that sees clear is gentlest of his words,
And that’s not truth that hath the heart to kill.
The whole world’s thought shall not one truth fulfil.
Dull in our age, and passionate in youth,
No mind of man hath found the perfect truth,
Nor shalt thou find it; therefore, friend, be still.
Watch and be still, nor hearken to the fool,
The babbler of consistency and rule:
Wisest is he, who, never quite secure,
Changes his thoughts for better day by day:
To-morrow some new light will shine, be sure,
And thou shalt see thy thought another way.
#3 From “Love In Search Of Truth” by William Henry Holcombe
When Love was sovereign Queen alone,
And had no partner to her throne,
She sought one day a great magician
Renowned for power and erudition,
Bearing a portrait in her hand,
And softly gave her high command:
“This is my Bridegroom, only he
The child was lost in infancy,
Of birth divine, his name is Truth,
And I have come to seek the youth.
Adjust your mirrors, let me see
If one who bears the name is he.”
#4 “Truth” by Robert Herrick
Truth is best found out by the time and eyes;
Falsehood wins credit by uncertainties.
#5 “Truth” by Unknown
There was a young lady named Ruth,
Who had a great passion for truth.
She said she would die
Before she would lie,
And she died in the prime of her youth.
#6 “Truth” by Walter Murdoch
The hero first thought it
To him ’twas a deed:
To those who retaught it,
A chain on their speed.
The fire that we kindled,
A beacon by night,
When darkness has dwindled
Grows pale in the light.
For life has no glory
Stays long in one dwelling,
And time has no story
That’s true twice in telling.
And only the teaching
That never was spoken
Is worthy thy reaching,
The fountain unbroken.
#7 “Truth Doth Truth Deserve” by Philip Sidney
Who doth desire that chaste his wife should be,
First be he true, for truth doth truth deserve :
Then such be he as she his worth may see,
And one man still credit with her preserve.
Not toying kind, nor causelessly unkind;
Not stirring thoughts, nor yet denying right;
Not spying faults, nor in plain errors blind;
Never hard hand, nor ever reins too light.
As far from want, as far from vain expense
(The one doth force, the latter doth entice) ;
Allow good company, but keep from thence
All filthy mouths that glory in their vice.
This done, thou hast no more, but leave the rest
To virtue, fortune, time, and woman’s breast.
#8 “Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show” by Sir Philip Sidney
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,—
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,—
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe;
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burned brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention’s stay;
Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Study’s blows;
And others’ feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite;
Fool, said my Muse to me, look in thy heart, and write.
#9 “The Truth Of Woman” by Walter Scott (Sir)
Woman’s faith, and woman’s trust
Write the characters in the dust;
Stamp them on the running stream,
Print them on the moon’s pale beam,
And each evanescent letter
Shall be clearer, firmer, better,
And more permanent, I ween,
Than the thing those letters mean.
I have strain’d the spider’s thread
‘Gainst the promise of a maid;
I have weigh’d a grain of sand
‘Gainst her plight of heart and hand;
I told my true love of the token,
How her faith proved light, and her word was broken:
Again her word and truth she plight,
And I believed them again ere night.
#10 “The Truth Teller” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
The Truth Teller lifts the curtain,
And shows us the people’s plight;
And everything seems uncertain,
And nothing at all looks right.
Yet out of the blackness groping,
My heart finds a world in bloom;
For it somehow is fashioned for hoping,
And it cannot live in the gloom.
He tells us from border to border,
That race is warring with race;
With riot and mad disorder,
The earth is a wretched place;
And yet ere the sun is setting
I am thinking of peace, not strife;
For my heart has a way of forgetting
All things save the joy of life.
I heard in my Youth’s beginning
That earth was a region of woe,
And trouble, and sorrow, and sinning:
The Truth Teller told me so.
I knew it was true, and tragic;
And I mourned over much that was wrong;
And then, by some curious magic,
The heart of me burst into song.
The years have been going, going,
A mixture of pleasure and pain;
But the Truth Teller’s books are showing
That evil is on the gain.
And I know that I ought to be grieving,
And I should be too sad to sing;
But somehow I keep on believing
That life is a glorious thing.