Pablo Neruda, pen name for Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto

Neruda, pen name for Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto

Chilean Poet and Diplomat, Awarded Nobel Prize for Literature

Author Quotes

The verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

If you think it long and mad the wind of banners that passes through my life and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land.

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour which the night fastens to all the timetables.

Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.

My eyes were consumed by your loveliness, but you have become my eyes.

Of everything I have seen, it's you I want to go on seeing: of everything I've touched, it's your flesh I want to go on touching. I love your orange laughter. I am moved by the sight of you sleeping. What am I to do, love, loved one? I don't know how others love or how people loved in the past. I live, watching you, loving you. Being in love is my nature.

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

So the freshness lives on in a lemon, in the sweet-smelling house of the rind, the proportions, arcane and acerb.

The final poem sad tonight I want to write the lines I write for example: The night is shattered and its pieces are stars in the distance and the wind go night - the wind wraps the sky and sings I most sad tonight. write the rows of his love, and sometimes I've been in love with her ??at night so my arms and kissed her very much under the endless sky, my love, and sometimes I fall in love How could love big eyes off of her I am sad tonight I want to write the lines that I do not understand his feeling that his missing 've heard this long night, which no longer he sits on the spirit of these rows, like dew on the grass , what It is important, that I could not keep the night is shattered and she is not with me the whole story. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance, his absence could not take my soul, as if struggling to find my two plays her heart: not night looks like the same horn Saran morning my time, not like we definitely love Not now, but how I long to reach him, maybe the wind has struggled to find someone to kiss on the lips because I kiss his voice, his marble body, infinite eyes, certainly, but perhaps now I am not in love. Love is short, forgetting what his long nights of her, I no longer hold that his soul could not lack , however, is the ultimate punishment that makes me suffer and these the last lines that I write for

The waves tell the firm coast: everything will be fulfilled.

I'll send you a kiss in the wind and I know you feel, you turn around without seeing me but I'll be there.

It is time, love, to break off that somber rose, shut up the stars and bury the ash in the earth; and, in the rising of the light, wake with those who awoke or go on in the dream, reaching the other shore of the sea which has no other shore.

Little by little, and also in great leaps, life happened to me, and how insignificant this business is. Carried These veins my blood, what I scarcely ever saw, I Breathed the air of so many places without keeping a sample of any. In the end, everyone is aware of this: nobody keeps any of what I have, and life is only a borrowing of bones. The best thing was learning not to have too much either of sorrow or of joy, to hope for the chance of to last drop, to ask more from honey and from twilight. Perhaps it was my punishment. Perhaps I was condemned to be happy. Let it be known that nobody crossed my path without sharing my being. Plunged I up to the neck into adversities that were not mine, into all the Sufferings of others. It was not a question of applause or profit. Much less. It was not being able to live or breathe In this shadow, the shadow of others like towers, like bitter trees That bury you, like cobblestones on the knees. Wounds heal with our own weeping, our own wounds heal with singing, but in our own doorway lie bleeding. Widows, Indians, poor men, fishermen the miner's child does not know his father amidst all that suffering so be it, but my business was the fullness of the spirit: a cry of pleasure choking you, a sigh from an uprooted plant, the sum of all action. It pleased me to Grow with the morning, to bathe in the sun, in the great joy of sun, salt, sea-light and wave, and in That unwinding of the foam my heart Began to move, That essential growing in spasm, and dying away as it seeped into the sand.

My feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living.

Oh each successive night that comes has something in it of an abandoned ember that is slowly burning out, and it falls swathed in ruins, surrounded by funereal objects.

Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.

Someday anywhere, unfailingly anywhere you find yourself, and that, only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.

The flag arise me. Nobody would like me to stay on the pillow where your eyelids want to close the world to me. There would also let me sleep blood surrounding your sweetness. But arise, you, get up, get up but me and let's get together to grapple with the cobwebs of evil, against the system that distributes hunger, against the organization of misery. Going, and you, my star, next to me, newborn of my own clay, you've already found the spring that hidden in the fire and will be next to me, with your eyes mischievously, raising my flag.

The whole human earth was bleeding. Time, buildings, routes, rain, erase the constellation of the crime, the fact is, this small planet has been covered a thousand times by blood, war or vengeance, ambush or battle, people fell, they were devoured, and later oblivion wiped clean each square meter: sometimes a vague, dishonest monument, other times a clause in bronze, and still later, conversations, births, townships, and then oblivion. What arts we have for extermination and what science to obliterate memory! What was bloody is covered with flowers. Once more, young men, ready yourselves for another chance to kill, to die again, and to scatter flowers over the blood.

I'm a poet with no provision but I say, without pity and without regret: murderer no good in my opinion.

It is today exactly one hundred years since an unhappy and brilliant poet, the most awesome of all despairing souls, wrote down this prophecy: "In the dawn, armed with a burning patience, we shall enter the splendid Cities."

Long horse. Gallop hear how the sea, the sky, wants to kill me. Listen how the world is these toxins to destroy me. shall hide me in your arms just for this night, when the rain- mouth the innumerable sea chest and breaks down , listen how the wind Gallop Gallop for my winnings. , with your forehead on my forehead and mouth to mouth our bodies tied to the love that pulls us down let the wind pass and me battle. , let the wind through the canopy of the sea floor, let me sing and chew me when I go down into your big eyes, and only one night in the quiet, my love

My life, you will not find in the well that I fall for you to keep up.

Oh Earth, Wait for Me Return to me, oh sun, to my wild destiny, rain of the ancient wood, bring me back the flavor and the swords That fall from the sky, the solitary peace of pasture and rock, the damp at the river-margins, the smell of the larch tree, the wind alive like a heart beating in the crowded restlessness of the towering araucaria. Earth, give me back your mashed gifts, the towers of silence which rose from the solemnity of their roots. I want to go back to being what I have not Been, and learn to go back from deeps such that among all natural things I could live or not live; it does not matter to be one stone more, the dark stone, the pure stone which the river bears away.

Perhaps not to be is to be without your being, without your going, that cuts noon light like a blue flower, without your passing later through fog and stones, without the torch you lift in your hand that others may not see as golden, that perhaps no one believed blossomed the glowing origin of the rose, without, in the end, your being, your coming suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life, blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze: and it follows that I am, because you are: it follows from ?you are?, that I am, and we: and, because of love, you will, I will, We will, come to be.

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Neruda, pen name for Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
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Chilean Poet and Diplomat, Awarded Nobel Prize for Literature