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

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Hands make the world each day.
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Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?
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In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
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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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Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.
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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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Love, how many roads to obtain a kiss.
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Fue adondo a mi me perdieron quw logre por fin encontrarme? Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself?
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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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Shyness is a condition foreign to the heart - a category, a dimension which leads to loneliness.
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I want to see thirst In the syllables, Tough fire In the sound Feel through the dark For the scream.
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sometimes i get up at dawn, and even my soul is wet.
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The typewriter separated me from a deeper intimacy with poetry, and my hand brought me closer to that intimacy again.
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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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Then Scale by scale, We strip off The delicacy And eat The peaceful mush Of its green heart.
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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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And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain.
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The bare earth, plantless, waterless, is an immense puzzle. In the forests or beside rivers everything speaks to humans. The desert does not speak. I could not comprehend its tongue its silence...
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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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The road made wet by the water of August shines like it was cut in full moonlight
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