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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.

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
Tiny
Bird
Journeying
Pure
Pollen
Small
Swallows
Water
Dances
Alphabet
Fiery
Rising

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It was at that age that poetry came in search of me.
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And I, infinitesima­l being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, I felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke loose on the wind.
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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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For now I ask no more Than the justice of eating.
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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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The typewriter separated me from a deeper intimacy with poetry, and my hand brought me closer to that intimacy again.
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From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.
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I got lost in the night, without the light of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness.
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I spin on the circle of wave upon wave of the sea.
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Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
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How much does a man live, after all?/ Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries?/ How long does a man spend dying?/ What does it mean to say 'for ever'?
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Poetry is an act of peace.
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Look around—there's only one thing of danger for you here—poetry.
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Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.
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Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.
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And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.
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Is 4 the same 4 for everybody? Are all sevens equal? When the convict ponders the light is it the same light that shines on you?
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There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.
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The Ardent Hymn that Unites Peoples.
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Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
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