Pablo Neruda

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

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.

Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.

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

She did not speak for speech was unknown to her.

Where were you then? Who else was there? Saying what? Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?

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

With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?

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

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

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

And our problems will crumble apart, the soul / blow through like a wind, and here where we live will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the table.

As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin.

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

Well, now If little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you Little by little If suddenly you forget me Do not look for me For I shall already have forgotten you If you think it long and mad the wind of banners that passes through my life And you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots Remember That on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms And my roots will set off to seek another land

Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.

While I'm writing, I'm far away; and when I come back, I've gone.

To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.

In this part of the story I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.

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?

Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.