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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.

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
Grace
Dies
Distributes
Lives
Daybreak
Heart
Graces
Wakes
Rests
Breast
Breasts

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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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I have named you queen. There are taller than you, taller. There are purer than you, purer. There are lovelier than you, lovelier. But you are the queen.
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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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To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.
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Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth.
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The night is shattered, and the blue stars shiver in the distance.
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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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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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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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Under your skin the moon is alive.
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A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.
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As slippery as smooth grapes, words exploding in the light like dormant seeds waiting in the vaults of vocabulary, alive again, and giving life: once again the heart distills them.
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I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
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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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What did the earth teach the trees? How to speak to the sky.
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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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I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.
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O merry, merry, merry, like only dogs know how to be happy and nothing more, with an absolute shameless nature.
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Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.
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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.
Pablo Neruda