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I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.

Pablo Neruda

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Pablo Neruda
Age: 69 †
Born: 1904
Born: July 12
Died: 1973
Died: September 23
Author
Autobiographer
Diplomat
Lyricist
Poet
Politician
Senator Of Chile
Nieh-lu-ta
Neftalí Reyes Basoalto
Pamplo Nerouda
Neftalí Ricardo Reyes
Bāblū Nīrūdā
Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Nieluda
Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Neftali Reyes Basualto
Neftali Reyes Basoalto
Neftali Ricardo Reyes
Neftalí Reyes Basualto
Pāplō Nerūda
Plates
Infinitely
Grand
Flower
Small
Things
Thimble
Love
Vases
Spurs

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Hands make the world each day.
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I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen.
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I believed that the way passed through Man, and that it was from there that destiny had to emerge.
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Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
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Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress? Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots? Who hears the regrets of the thieving automobile? Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain?
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You can crush the flowers, but you can't stop the spring.
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Love! Love until the night collapses!
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Once more I am the silent one who came out of the distance wrapped in cold rain and bells: I owe to earth's pure death the will to sprout.
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It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
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Cómo se acuerda con los pájaros la traducción de sus idiomas?
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I'm not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.
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I don't know who it is who lives or dies, who rests or wakes, but it is your heart that distributes all the graces of the daybreak in my breast.
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Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world? Why do I move without wanting to, why am I not able to sit still? Why do I go rolling without wheels, flying without wings or feathers, and why did I decide to migrate if my bones live in Chile?
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I learned about life from life itself, love I learned in a single kiss and could teach no one anything except that I have lived with something in common among men.
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I am made of earth, and my song made of words.
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Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
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And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain.
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Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand.
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In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
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My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.
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