Quote

I will bring you flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

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
Mountain
Cherry
Spring
Cherries
Flower
Baskets
Tree
Kisses
Bring
Mountains
Dark
Flowers
Doe
Trees
Bluebells
Kissing
Rustic

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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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When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say.
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The tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.
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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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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?
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When your hands leap towards mine, love, what do they bring me in flight?
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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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We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And lay like fish Under the net of our kisses.
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The road made wet by the water of August shines like it was cut in full moonlight
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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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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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Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
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I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.
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I say love, and the world populates itself with doves.
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What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?
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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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Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
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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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