Top 9 Best Pablo Neruda Poems To Read

Pablo Neruda

As a result of his prolific work and poetry as a global degree, Pablo Neruda has become among the very best modern poets on earth. Pablo Neruda was the pen name and, later, legal name of the Chilean poet and politician Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. Notably, winning the prized Nobel Prize also offers this ability to stay in Chile’s public adoration. This Chilean poet has the capacity to express profound passion and sensuality and discover vibrant life and majesty in everyday foods such as berries melted the snow of thousands of readers. Below are the Greatest Pablo Neruda Poems gathered by Penn Books.

Best Poems By Pablo Neruda

Best Pablo Neruda Poems To Read


Tell me, is the rose naked

or is that her only dress?

Why do trees conceal

the splendor of their roots?

Who hears the regrets

of the thieving automobile?

Is there anything in the world sadder

than a train standing in the rain?


Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,

when you surrender, you stretch out like the world.

My body, savage and peasant, undermines you

and makes a son leap in the bottom of the earth.

I was lonely as a tunnel. Birds flew from me.

And night invaded me with her powerful army.

To survive I forged you like a weapon,

like an arrow for my bow, or a stone for my sling.

But now the hour of revenge falls, and I love you.

Body of skin, of moss, of firm and thirsty milk!

And the cups of your breasts! And your eyes full of absence!

And the roses of your mound! And your voice slow and sad!

Body of my woman, I will live on through your marvelousness.

My thirst, my desire without end, my wavering road!

Dark river beds down which the eternal thirst is flowing,

and the fatigue is flowing, and the grief without shore.


“I want you to know

one thing.

You know how this is:

if I look

at the crystal moon, at the red branch

of the slow autumn at my window,

if I touch

near the fire

the impalpable ash

or the wrinkled body of the log,

everything carries me to you,

as if everything that exists,

aromas, light, metals,

were little boats

that sail

toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

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.”



There are cemeteries that are lonely,

graves full of bones that do not make a sound,

the heart moving through a tunnel,

in it darkness, darkness, darkness,

like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,

as though we were drowning inside our hearts,

as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

Death arrives among all that sound

like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,

comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone it, with no

finger in it,

comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no


Nevertheless its steps can be heard

and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I’m not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,

but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,

of violets that are at home in the earth,

because the face of death is green,

and the look death gives is green,

with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf

and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,

lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,

death is inside the broom,

the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,

it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots:

it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,

in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:

it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,

and the beds go sailing toward a port

where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.


You are here. Oh, you do not run away.

You will answer me to the last cry.

Curl round me as though you were frightened.

Even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,

and even your breasts smell of it.

While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies

I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,

my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.

So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,

and over our heads the gray light unwinds in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.

A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.

Until I even believe that you own the universe.

I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,

dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.

I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.


What did you do, you Gideans,

intellectualizers, Rilkeans,

mystifiers, false existential

sorcerers, surrealist

butterflies incandescent

in the tomb, Europhile

cadavers in fashion,

pale worms in the capitalist

cheese, what did you do

confronted with the reign of anguish,

in the face of this dark human being,

the kicked-around dignity,

this head immersed

in manure, this essence

of coarse and trampled lives?

You did nothing but take flight:

sold a stack of debris,

searched for celestial hair,

cowardly plants, fingernail clippings,

“Pure Beauty,” “spells,”

works of the timid

good for averting the eyes,

for the confusion of delicate

pupils, surviving

on a plate of dirty leftovers

tossed at you by the masters,

not seeing the stone in agony,

no defense, no conquest,

more blind than wreaths

at the cemetery, when rain

falls on the flowers still

and rotten among the tombs.



In Salvador, death still patrols.

The blood of dead campesinos

has not dried, it does not dry with time,

the rain does not wipe it off the roads.

Fifteen thousand machine-gunned:

Martinez was the murderer’s name.

To this day the taste of blood lingers

in the land, bread and wine of Salvador.


I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,

or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:

I love you as one loves certain obscure things,

secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries

the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,

and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose

from the earth lives dimly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,

I love you directly without problems or pride:

I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,

except in this form in which I am not nor are you,

so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,

so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

Note: About Pablo Neruda love poems, the iconic line of Neruda’s is present in this poem, “Love is so short, forgetting is so long.”


The street

filled with tomatoes,



light is





its juice


through the streets.

In December,


the tomato


the kitchen,

it enters at lunchtime,


its ease

on countertops,

among glasses,

butter dishes,

blue saltcellars.

It sheds

its own light,

benign majesty.

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