Pablo Neruda Quotes - Page 3

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The road made wet by the water of August shines like it was cut in full moonlight

He who has nothing—it has been said many times—has nothing to lose but his chains.

To love is to tilt with the lightning, two bodies routed by a single honey's sweet.

The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you.

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

Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.

We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And lay like fish Under the net of our kisses.

You are like night, calmed, constellated. Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true.

Perhaps the earth can teach us As when everything seems dead And later proves to be alive

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Take bread away from me, if you wish, take air away, but do not take from me your laughter.

But from each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies.

Then Scale by scale, We strip off The delicacy And eat The peaceful mush Of its green heart.

In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.

The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.

And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

Shyness is a condition foreign to the heart - a category, a dimension which leads to loneliness.

From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.

White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul You live again in time, slender and silent.

Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness, and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

I believed that the way passed through Man, and that it was from there that destiny had to emerge.

Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness

I'm not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.

I want to see thirst In the syllables, Tough fire In the sound; Feel through the dark For the scream.

And when you appear all the rivers sound in my body, bells shake the sky, and a hymn fills the world.

I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.

For me writing is like breathing. I could not live without breathing and I could not live without writing.

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

so I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.

I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.

Love is not about property, diamonds and gifts. It is about sharing your very self with the world around you.

Como se reparten el sol en el naranjo las naranjas? How do the oranges divide up sunlight in the orange tree?

O merry, merry, merry, like only dogs know how to be happy and nothing more, with an absolute shameless nature.

Then love knew it was called love. And when I lifted my eyes to your name, suddenly your heart showed me my way

There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.

I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.

When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept?

And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

So the freshness lives on in a lemon, in the sweet-smelling house of the rind, the proportions, arcane and acerb.

When I got the chance I asked them a slew of questions. They offered to burn me; it was the only thing they knew.

Fue adondo a mi me perdieron quw logre por fin encontrarme? Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself?

A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.

Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?

Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth.

Donde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?

The typewriter separated me from a deeper intimacy with poetry, and my hand brought me closer to that intimacy again.

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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