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Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
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
South
Among
Name
Stars
Names
Writes
Remember
Existed
Writing
Smoke
Letters
More quotes by Pablo Neruda
I am everybody and every time, I always call myself by your name.
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I say love, and the world populates itself with doves.
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Love is the mystery of water and a star.
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Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
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I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
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If you no longer live, if you my beloved, my love, if you have died, all the leaves will fall in my breast, it will rain in my soul night and day, the snow will burn my heart, I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow, my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping, but I shall live
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About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you
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sometimes i get up at dawn, and even my soul is wet.
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Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.
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When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say.
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I spin on the circle of wave upon wave of the sea.
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It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
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O happy childhood! blessed youth! But once we know thy potent power But once we live all careless free No cross to mar our love-lit bower.
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I want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees
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I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.
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And here am I, budding among the ruins with only sorrow to bite on, as if weeping were a seed and I the earth's only furrow.
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Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
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When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept?
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Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
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Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?
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