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Once more I am the silent one who came out of the distance wrapped in cold rain and bells: I owe to earth's pure death the will to sprout.

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
Cold
Sprouts
Silence
Wrapped
Came
Bells
Death
Winter
Earth
Distance
Rain
Silent
Pure
Sprout

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You can crush the flowers, but you can't stop the spring.
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In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
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I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
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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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Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.
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I learned about life from life itself, love I learned in a single kiss and could teach no one anything except that I have lived with something in common among men.
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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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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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Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
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What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?
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I want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees
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I spin on the circle of wave upon wave of the sea.
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But when I call for a hero, out comes my lazy old self so I never know who I am, nor how many I am or will be. I'd love to be able to touch a bell and summon the real me, because if I really need myself, I mustn't disappear.
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Love has to be…flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.
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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.
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Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?
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A child who does not play is not a child, but the man who doesn't play has lost forever the child who lived in him and who he will miss terribly.
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The tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.
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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?
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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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