Pablo Neruda Quotes (118 Quotes)

Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.

The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

Ah our love is a harsh cord
that binds us wounding us
and if we want
to leave our wound,
to separate,
it makes a new knot for us and condemns us
to drain our blood and burn together.

I don't love you as if you were a rose of salt, topazor arrow of carnations that propagate fireI love you as one loves certain dark things,secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.

Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

The night is starry and she is not with me.

Stifling laments, milling shadowy hopes,
taciturn miller,
night falls on you face downward, far from the city.

The delicate dictator is talking
with top hats, gold braid, and collars.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride so I love you because I know no other way.

Everything you do is full of flowers, rich with the earth.

The books that help you most are those which make you think that most. The hardest way of learning is that of easy reading; but a great book that comes from a great thinker is a ship of thought, deep freighted with truth and beauty.

and the fragrance of the earth lives
in your crystalline nature.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Latin America is very fond of the word hope. We like to be called the continent of hope. Candidates for deputy, senator, president, call themselves candidates of hope.

An odor has remained among the sugarcane:
a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating
petal that brings nausea.

O Love, now we can forget the star that has such thorns!

I tell you it is waiting for time, like you.

Naked you are spacious and yellow
As summer in a golden church.

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.

And in Chilean
stewpots,
along the coast,
was born the chowder,
thick and succulent,
a boon to man.

I like on the table,
when we're speaking,
the light of a bottle
of intelligent wine.

And then on every table
in the world,
salt,
we see your piquant
powder
sprinkling
vital light
upon
our food.

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

Swimmer, your body is pure as the water;
cook, your blood is quick as the soil.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Naked you are blue as a night in Cuba;
You've vines and stars in your hair.

My life before anyone, my harsh life.

I said it again: Come with me, as if I were dying,
and no one saw the moon that bled in my mouth
or the blood that rose into the silence.

Speechless, my friend,
alone in the loneliness of this hour of the dead
and filled with the lives of fire,
pure heir of the ruined day.

The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.

And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

Penguin, static traveler,
deliberate priest of the cold,
I salute your vertical salt
and envy your plumed pride.

Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.

There, milk and matter,
strength-giving, nutritious
cornmeal pulp,
you were worked and patted
by the wondrous hands
of dark-skinned women.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.

My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

the geysers flooding from deep in its vault:
in my mouth I felt the taste of fire again,
of blood and carnations, of rock and scald.

The weeping cannot be seen, like a plant
whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth,
whose large blind leaves grow even without light.

No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.

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.

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.

Let the wine pitcher
add to the kiss of love its own.

Write, for instance: The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.

You, woman, what were you there, what ray, what vane
of that immense fan?

The hook of the angler fish, the music stretched out
in the deep places like a thread in the water?