Quote

Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .

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
House
Waterfalls
Like
Dew
Buzz
Deeds
Sounds
Sing
Midday
Train
Wasps
Sound
Waterfall

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Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.
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Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness, and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.
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I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.
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Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when.
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Today is today, and yesterday is gone. There is no doubt.
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I move in the university of the waves.
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How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.
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Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands, my private pain, my pride?
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Love, how many roads to obtain a kiss.
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Look around—there's only one thing of danger for you here—poetry.
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I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
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For now I ask no more Than the justice of eating.
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The Ardent Hymn that Unites Peoples.
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To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.
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Political poetry is more profoundly emotional than any other-at least as much as love poetry-and cannot be forced because then it becomes vulgar and unacceptable. It is necessary first to pan though all other poetry in order to become a political poet.
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The night is shattered, and the blue stars shiver in the distance.
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From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.
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Hands make the world each day.
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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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I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.
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