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What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?

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
Blood
Never
Touched
Poetry

More quotes by Pablo Neruda

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Nobody can claim the name of Pedro, nobody is Rosa or María, all of us are dust or sand, all of us are rain under rain. They have spoken to me of Venezuelas, of Chiles and Paraguays I have no idea what they are saying. I know only the skin of the earth and I know it has no name.
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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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In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater
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For now I ask no more Than the justice of eating.
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And what importance do I have in the courtroom of oblivion?
Pablo Neruda
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Shyness is a condition foreign to the heart - a category, a dimension which leads to loneliness.
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Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.
Pablo Neruda
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Maybe someone will know I didn't weave crowns to draw blood that I faught against mockery that I did fill the high tide of my soul with truth. I repaid vileness with doves.
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When your hands leap towards mine, love, what do they bring me in flight?
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I believed that the way passed through Man, and that it was from there that destiny had to emerge.
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Bitter love, a violet with it's crown of thorns in a thicet of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you?
Pablo Neruda
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The road made wet by the water of August shines like it was cut in full moonlight
Pablo Neruda
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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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What did the earth teach the trees? How to speak to the sky.
Pablo Neruda
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What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?
Pablo Neruda
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Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Pablo Neruda
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The morning is full of storm in the heart of summer. The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye, the wind, travelling, waving them in its hands. The numberless heart of the wind beating above our loving silence. Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees like a language full of wars and songs.
Pablo Neruda
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Death is the stone into which our oblivion hardens.
Pablo Neruda
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Tomorrow we will only give them a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf which will fall on the earth like if it had been made by our lips like a kiss which falls from our invincible heights to show the fire and the tenderness of a true love.
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Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
Pablo Neruda