Best 46 quotes of Gabriela Mistral on MyQuotes

A crippled child Said, "How shall I dance?" Let your heart dance We said. Then the invalid said: "How shall I sing?" Let your heart sing We said Then spoke the poor dead thistle, "But I, how shall I dance?" Let your heart fly to the wind We said. Then God spoke from above "How shall I descend from the blue?" Come dance for us here in the light We said. All the valley is dancing Together under the sun, And the heart of him who joins us not Is turned to dust, to dust.

All night I have suffered; all night my flesh has trembled to bring forth its gift. The sweat of death is on my forehead; but it is not death, it is life!

For me, religiosity is ... the constant remembrance of the presence of the soul.

I have a faithful joy and a joy that is lost. One is like a rose, the other, a thorn. The one that was stolen I have not lost.

I have all that I lost and I go carrying my childhood like a favorite flower that perfumes my hand.

In the secret of night, my prayer climbs like the liana, My prayer is, and I am not. It grows, and I perish. I have only my hard breath, my reason and my madness. I cling to the vine of my prayer. I tend it at the root of the stalk of night.

I write poetry because I can’t disobey the impulse; it would be like blocking a spring that surges up in my throat. For a long time I’ve been the servant of the song that comes, that appears and can’t be buried away. How to seal myself up now?…It no longer matters to me who receives what I submit. What I carry out is, in that respect, greater and deeper than I, I am merely the channel.

Let the earth look at me, and bless me, for now I am fecund and sacred, like the palms and the furrows.

Let the radiance of my enthusiasms envelop the poor courtyard and the bare classroom. Let my heart be a stronger column and my goodwill purer gold than the columns and gold of rich schools.

Love beauty it is the shadow of God on the universe

Many things can wait. Children cannot. Today their bones are being formed, their blood is being made, their senses are being developed. To them we cannot say "tomorrow." Their name is today.

My grief and my smile begin in your face, my son.

Now I am nothing but a veil; all my body is a veil beneath which a child sleeps.

The poet is an untier of knots, and love without words is a knot, and it drowns.

There is the joy of being healthy and fair, but there is overall the beauty, the immense joy of being useful.

We are guilty of many errors and many faults, But our worst crime is abandoning the children, Neglecting the fountain of life. Many of the things we need can wait. The child cannot. Right now is the time his bones are being formed, His blood is being made, And his senses are being developed. To him we cannot answer 'Tomorrow.' His name is 'Today.'

Writing tends to cheer me; it always soothes my spirit and blesses me with the gift of an innocent, tender, childlike day. It is the sensation of having spent a few hours in my homeland, with my customs, free whims, my total freedom.

You shall create beauty not to excite the senses but to give sustenance to the soul.

Already she was climbing the wind, already was not and didn't know it . . .

Already we mistrust wakefulness; if we are dreaming, then let us dream, until our dream convinces us.

And he keeps listening to seas that love nothing but themselves. But maybe now he listens to nothing, stalled in forgetfulness and salt.

And she grasps it because it's her fate.

A poor humiliated love burns in the house I see. In the vastness of the world, full of hard marvels, this love exists and suffers, wounded as no other.

Because she—you hear her—she's calling, and is always going to call, and it's better both of us die by the dagger without anyone seeing us, Orestes, and die a fit death.

Everyone left and we have remained on a path that goes on without us.

I am Cassandra—she who, without asking, understood it all and still came to her fate, I, Cassandra, full of visions, who sees her own death without turning away, and hears in the night the day that follows.

I could have not returned, and I've returned.

I don't want to know, but I would like to know it all from your own mouth, how she fell, what she said when she screamed and whether she cursed or blessed you.

I, Electra, fingering my garments and my face, for in hours I was changed. Now I am merely one who has killed.

If ever we two had a soul, let our soul —keep on walking and leave us behind.

If it's all been dream and delirium may death ripen me in my dream.

I killed a woman in me: one I did not love.

I stir the grasses where quail nestle, tenderly afraid. And through the countryside I go quietly, cautiously: I believe that trees and things have sleeping children over whom they hover watching.

Mi grito vivo no se le relaja; ciego y exacto lo alcanza en los riscos. Avanza abriendo el matorral espeso y al acercarse ya suelta su espalda, libre lo deja y se apaga en mi puerta. Y ya no hay voz cuando cae a mis brazos porque toda ella quedó consumida, y este silencio es más fuerte que el grito si así nos deja con los rostros blancos.

No happiness or pain, no more forgetting.

Now what mattered to me no longer matters.

She loved only her lover and Iphigenia in the narrowness of her cold breast.

Sin nombre, raza ni credo, desnuda de todo y de sí misma, da su entrega, hermosa y pura, de pies voladores. Sacudida como árbol y en el centro de la tornada, vuelta testimonio. No está danzando el vuelo de albatroses salpicados de sal y juegos de olas; tampoco el alzamiento y la derrota de los cañaverales fustigados. Tampoco el viento agitador de velas, ni la sonrisa de las altas hierbas. El nombre no le den de su bautismo. Se soltó de su casta y de su carne sumió la canturía de su sangre y la balada de su adolescencia.

The bronze of the door is worthless, alas, to keep me from seeing her who comes by the walks of myrtles to search me out drunk with hatred and crazed by fate.

The gods give, like twin flowers, power and ruin, memory and oblivion.

The night itself is riddled with her, wide with her, and alive with her.

The night itself is riddled with her, wide with her, and alive with her. It seems that it has no word or other traveler, no other secret sign.

The past is falling to pieces like the beggar with his clown-clothes . . .

This salt mist blots out everything that comforts and speaks to the traveler: roads, bridges, towns, trees. There's no face I might see and know, only the mist whose insistent hand runs over our faces and flanks.

What was it that was never finished, neither changed nor fulfilled?

Yo tengo en esa hoguera de ladrillos, yo tengo al hombre mío prisionero. Por corredores de filos amargos y en esta luz sesgada de murciélago, tanteando como el buzo por la gruta, voy caminando hasta que me lo encuentro, y hallo a mi cebra pintada de burla en los anillos de su befa envuelto. Me lo han dejado, como a barco roto, con anclas de metal en los pies tiernos; le han esquilado como a la vicuña su gloria azafranada de cabellos. Pero su Ángel-Custodio anda la celda y si nunca lo ven es que están ciegos. Entró con él al hoyo de cisterna; tomó los grillos como obedeciendo; se alzó a coger el vestido de cobra, y se quedó sin el aire del cielo. El Ángel gira moliendo y moliendo la harina densa del más denso sueño; le borra el mar de zarcos oleajes, le sumerge una casa y un viñedo, y le esconde mi ardor de carne en llamas, y su esencia, y el nombre que dieron. En la celda, las olas de bochorno y frío, de los dos, yo me las siento, y trueque y turno que hacen y deshacen de queja y queja los dos prisioneros ¡y su guardián nocturno ni ve ni oye que dos espaldas son y dos lamentos!