Neruda s poems, Neruda s romantic and beautiful poems

Neruda's poem is as follows:

1. I like that you are silent, as if you have disappeared. You listen to me from afar, but my voice cannot reach you. It's as if your eyes have flown away, like a kiss that seals your mouth. —Neruda, "I like you to be silent".

2. You are like the night, with silence and stars. —Naruda, Twenty Love Poems and Songs of Despair

3. I don't love her anymore, that's for sure, but maybe I love her. Love is too short, and forgetting is too long. —Naruda, Twenty Love Poems and Songs of Despair

4. You are the last rose in my barren land. —Naruda, Twenty Love Poems and Songs of Despair

5. Leaning in the twilight, I throw my net of sorrow into your ocean-like eyes. —Naruda, Twenty Love Poems and Songs of Despair

6. I'm going to do on you what I did in the cherry tree in the spring. —Naruda, Twenty Love Poems and Songs of Despair

Neruda's romantic and beautiful conjecture poem is as follows: Dan Zhao Belt

Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair is considered his most famous collection of poems.

The Woman's Body", "Light with Its Flame", "Ah, the Expanse of the Pine Forest", "The Morning Is Full of Storms", "To Make You Hear Me", "I Remember You Last Autumn", "Twilight", "The White Bee".

An appreciation of Neruda's poems

Neruda wrote many touching love poems. Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair (1924) is Neruda's earliest, most famous and best-selling collection of poems, and it and his later Hundred Love Sonnets have become household names in South America. The collection of poems depicts love and natural scenery between young men and women, with a strong romantic color, and is a representative work of his early style.

Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, as the title itself contains, describes the torment of love. This is the end of his two loves: both his attachment to the girl of Temuco (Marisol) and his admiration for the girl of Santiago (Marizembra).

It is active between the past and the present, between darkness and light, between loss and possession, between the poet and the woman he loves, there is only estrangement and bitterness. The melancholy of love has long penetrated the heart.

You play with the light of the universe every day.

Shrewd female guest, you come with flowers and flowing water.

You beat the cute little white flower in my palm.

Every day I have to hold a bouquet of flowers in my hand.

Ever since I fell in love with you, you've been different.

Let me help you lie in the yellow garland.

Who is using a smoky font.

Write your name among the stars of the south?

Ah, let me tell you what you were like at that time, because you didn't know the world yet.

Suddenly, the wind howled, pounding on my closed window.

The sky is a net full of gloomy fish.

All kinds of winds are produced here, all winds.

Yu'er took off her clothes.

The birds fled.

Wind, wind. I can only fight against the power of humanity.

The wind piled up black dead leaves.

Blew away the boat that was tied to the sky last night.

You are here. Ah, you didn't run away!

You want me, until the last call sign.

Nestled up next to me, like I was really scared.

But a shadow flashes through your eyes.

Now, now, be careful, you've brought honeysuckle flowers, and even your breasts have a refreshing scent.

Just as the bitter wind chases a flock of butterflies, I love you, and my joy bites your cherry-like lips.

It's a good thing I didn't get you used to my life, my rough and lonely heart, my name that everyone avoids, otherwise how much pain it would have caused you.

You and me. I've seen Daystar burning and kissing us both countless times.

Countless times, I have seen the dawn circling and dancing like a fan above our heads.

My words are like raindrops caressing you and spilling over your body.

I've long fallen in love with your pearly jade body.

Even I think you are the mistress of the universe.

I will pluck you from the mountains the flowers of joy, the trumpet vines, the brown hazelnuts, the baskets of wild vines full of kisses.

I'm going to do it on you.

Things to do in the cherry trees in the spring.

Pastoral. I reproduce mountains, rivers, clouds;

I shook the barrel of my pen and recorded.

High-flying birds. <>

Or a spider busy reeling silk, single-mindedly: I am air.

The boundless air, where the wheat swayed and flew, without direction.

Fallen leaves, in the lake.

The round eyes of a still fish, and there.

The statue piercing the clouds, the dripping rain pushed me.

I've only seen the summer ones.

Transparent, I only sing the wind, and the history rides the float of the bud festival.

Collect medals and corpse clothes.

Walked through, I was alone.

Stay in the spring, feel nothing but the river, shepherd boy, shepherd boy, don't you know?

Are they waiting for you?

I know I know, but in this water, in the clattering and burning cicadas, I have to wait for myself, just as they wait for me, I want to see myself coming.

And finally I felt that feeling, and when I arrived at the place where I was waiting for me.

He let himself die laughing and fell asleep.

Sonata and destruction.

After a long walk, who knows how long and how far, as if I had gone to manors and territories, and the sad hope sustained me alone, with bad companions, with different dreams, I loved the tenacity that still existed in my eyes, still listening to the footsteps of my riders in my heart, still biting the fire of sleep and the salt of destruction:

In the night, in the darkness, in the sorrow of flying, it was he who kept watching the edge of the camp, the traveler unsuspected, confined in the darkening shadows, and in the fluttering wings I felt my presence—my stone arms guarding me.

In the science of tears, it is impossible for man to make a temple.

In my monotonous, hard-working afternoons, in the desolate moonlit graveyards, the familiar spiders, the ruins I loved so intensely, I cherished my lost self, my flawed physique, my silver blows and eternal loss.

The round grapes shimmered, and it was a funeral wine.

Still shaking, still remaining, barren possession, that unreliable home, who has ever held a cinder ceremony?

Who loves the lost and cares about the absolute?

The bones of his father, the wreckage of a wrecked ship, his own farewell, his own escape, his own power of sorrow, his sorrowful God?

I lay and waited, right now, for the inanimate, for the hurt, for the strange proof—I lifted it.

In a cruel way, written in the ashes, is the forgotten form I chose, the name I give to the earth, the value of my dreams, with my winter eyes, what I have divided.

The infinite number of horizons in this world every day.