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Tonight I can write the saddest lines...Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.

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
Writing
Lines
Though
Suffering
Lasts
Last
Saddest
Pain
Verses
Write
Tonight
Makes
Suffer

More quotes by Pablo Neruda

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I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line: underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.
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Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.
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I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
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I am made of earth, and my song made of words.
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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.
Pablo Neruda
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To feel the affection that comes from those whom we do not know ... widens out the boundaries of our being, and unites all living things.
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Love has to be…flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.
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I am everybody and every time, I always call myself by your name.
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In you is the illusion of each day. You arrive like the dew to the cupped flowers. You undermine the horizon with your absence. Eternally in flight like the wave.
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I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.
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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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Hands make the world each day.
Pablo Neruda
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From scarlet to powdered gold, to blazing yellow, to the rare ashen emerald, to the orange and black velvet of your shimmering corselet, out to the tip that like an amber thorn begins you, small, superlative being, you are a miracle, and you blaze
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Someone will ask later, sometimes searching for a name, his own or someone's else's why I neglected his sadness or his love... But I didn't have enough time or ink for everyone. Or maybe it was the strain of the city, of time the cold heart of the clocks.
Pablo Neruda
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And what importance do I have in the courtroom of oblivion?
Pablo Neruda
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On our earth, before writing was invented, before the printing press was invented, poetry flourished. That is why we know that poetry is like bread it should be shared by all, by scholars and by peasants, by all our vast, incredible, extraordinary family of humanity.
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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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Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness, and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.
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Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Pablo Neruda
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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.
Pablo Neruda