I leave you a list of happiness poems of some of the great poets of history such as Pablo Neruda, Rubén Darío, Antonio Machado, Federico García Lorca, Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, Vicente Aleixandre and many more.
In these poems the authors wanted to convey the desire to achieve happiness, how far away some felt it was, the happiness of the past, the places where it is or the ways in which it can be reached.
In what kingdom, in what century, in what silent
conjunction of the stars, on what secret day
that marble has not saved, arose the courageous
and unique idea of inventing joy?
Whith golden fall to invent. The wine
Red flows through the generations
like the river of time and on the hard road
he lavishes on us his music, his fire and his lions.
In the night of jubilation or in the adverse day
exalt joy or mitigate fear
and the new dithyramb that I sing to him this day
Once it was sung by the Arab and the Persian.
Wine, teach me the art of seeing my own story
as if this were already ash in memory.
I have committed the worst of sins
that a man can commit. I have not been
happy. Than the glaciers of oblivion
drag me down and lose me, ruthless.
My parents fathered me for the game
risky and beautiful of life,
for earth, water, air, fire.
I let them down. I was not happy. Accomplished
it was not his young will. My mind
was applied to the symmetrical stubborn
of art, that interweaves trifles.
They bequeathed me courage. I was not brave.
It does not abandon me. Is always by my side
The shadow of having been unhappy.
This time leave me
be happy,
nothing has happened to anyone,
I'm not anywhere,
it just happens
that i'm happy
For the fourth corners
from the heart, walking,
sleeping or writing.
What am I going to do to him, I am
happy.
I am more innumerable
than the grass
in the grasslands,
my skin feels like a rough tree
and the water below,
the birds above,
the sea like a ring
on my waist,
made of bread and stone the earth
the air sings like a guitar.
You by my side in the sand
you are sand,
you sing and you are song,
the world
today is my soul,
song and sand,
the world
today is your mouth,
leave me
in your mouth and in the sand
be happy,
be happy because yes, because I breathe
and because you breathe,
be happy because I play
your knee
and it's like touching
the blue skin of the sky
and its freshness.
Today leave me
to me alone
be happy,
with all or without all,
be happy
with the grass
and the sand,
be happy
with the air and the earth,
be happy,
with you, with your mouth,
be happy.
He who does not travel dies slowly,
who does not read,
who does not hear music,
who does not find grace in himself.
Die slowly
who destroys his self-love,
who does not let help.
Die slowly
who becomes a slave to habit
repeating the same every day
journeys,
who does not change brand,
you dare not change the color of your
clothing
or he does not talk with someone who does not
known.
Die slowly
who avoids a passion and its whirlpool
of emotions,
you are just that return the brightness
to the eyes and restore the hearts
shattered.
Die slowly
who does not turn the wheel when unhappy
with his work, or his love,
who does not risk the true or the uncertain to go
behind a dream
who does not allow himself, not even once in his life,
flee from sensible advice ...
Live today!
Risk today!
Do it today!
Do not let yourself die slowly!
Don't stop yourself from being happy!
Pink and white roses, green branches,
fresh and fresh corollas
bouquets, joy!
Nests in the warm trees,
eggs in the warm nests,
sweetness, joy!
The kiss of that girl
blonde, and that brunette's,
and that of that black woman, Alegría!
And the belly of that little girl
fifteen years old, and her arms
harmonious, joy!
And the breath of the virgin forest,
and that of the female virgins,
and the sweet rhymes of the Aurora,
Joy, joy, joy!
A blue sky of stars
shining in the vastness;
a bird in love
singing in the forest;
by environment the aromas
of the garden and the orange blossom;
next to us the water
sprouting from the spring
our hearts close,
our lips much more,
you rising to the sky
and me following you there,
that's love my life,
That is happiness! ...
Cross with the same wings
the worlds of the ideal;
rush all the joys,
and all good haste;
of dreams and happiness
back to reality,
waking up among the flowers
of a spring lawn;
the two looking at each other a lot,
the two of us kissing more,
that's love, my life,
That is happiness ... !
I have committed the worst of sins
that a man can commit. I have not been
happy. Than the glaciers of oblivion
drag me down and lose me, ruthless.
My parents fathered me for the game
risky and beautiful of life,
for earth, water, air, fire.
I let them down. I was not happy. Accomplished
it was not his young will. My mind
was applied to the symmetrical stubborn
of art, that interweaves trifles.
They bequeathed me courage. I was not brave.
It does not abandon me. Is always by my side
The shadow of having been unhappy.
-Let's pretend I'm happy (Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz)
Let's pretend I'm happy,
sad thought, a while;
maybe you can persuade me,
although I know the opposite,
that only in apprehension
they say that the damages lie,
if you imagine yourself happy
you will not be so miserable.
Serve me understanding
ever rest,
and wit is not always there
with the profit found.
Everyone is opinions
of opinions so various,
that what the one that is black
the other one proves that he is white.
To some it serves as attractiveness
what another conceives anger;
and what this for relief,
that one has for work.
The one who is sad, censors
to the cheerful of light;
and the one who is happy mocks
to see the sad man suffering.
The two Greek philosophers
well this truth they proved:
well what in the one laugh,
caused the other to cry.
Celebrate your opposition
it's been for so many centuries,
without which one was right
until now found out.
Before, in its two flags
the world all enlisted,
as the humor dictates,
each one follows the side.
One says laughing
only the diverse world is worthy;
and another, that their misfortunes
they are only for crying.
For everything there is proof
and reason on which to found it;
and there is no reason for anything,
if there is reason for so much.
They are all equal judges;
and being equal and several,
no one can decide
what is the most successful.
Well, if there is no one to sentence it,
Why do you think wrong,
What did God do to you?
the decision of the cases?
Or why, against yourself,
severely inhuman,
between bitter and sweet,
do you want to choose the bitter?
If my understanding is mine,
Why do I always have to find it
so awkward for relief,
so sharp for damage?
The speech is a steel
that works for both ends:
to kill, by the tip,
by the knob, as a safeguard.
If you, knowing the danger
do you want to use it for the tip,
What is the fault of the steel
of the bad use of the hand?
It is not knowing, knowing how to do
subtle, vain speeches;
that knowledge consists only
in choosing the healthiest.
Speculate the misfortunes
and examine the omens,
it only serves that evil
grow with anticipation.
In future jobs,
attention, refining,
more formidable than risk
usually fake the feint.
How happy is ignorance
of which, indolently wise,
find out what he suffers,
in what ignores, sacred!
They do not always go up insurance
flights of daring wit,
seeking throne in fire
and find a grave in weeping.
It is also a vice to know,
What if it doesn't stop,
when least known
the ravage is more harmful;
and if the flight does not bring you down,
in subtleties primed,
for taking care of the curious
forget what is necessary.
If cultured hand does not prevent
grow to the tree canopy,
removes the substance from the fruit
the madness of the bouquets.
If walking by light ship
does not get in the way of heavy ballast,
it serves the flight that is
the highest cliff.
In useless amenity,
What does it matter to the flowery field,
if autumn does not find fruit,
May may have flowers?
What good is wit
producing many births,
if the crowd is followed
the failure of aborting them?
And to this misery by force
failure has to be followed
to remain the one that produces,
if not dead, hurt.
Wit is like fire,
that, with ungrateful stuff,
both consumes it more
when he shows himself clearer.
It's from your own Lord
so rebellious vassal,
that turns into their offenses
the weapons of your guard.
This lousy exercise,
this hard heavy eagerness,
in the eyes of men
God gave to exercise them.
What crazy ambition drives us
of us forgotten?
If it is to live so little,
What's the use of knowing so much?
Oh yeah, how is there to know,
would there be a seminar
or school where to ignore
the works will be taught!
How happily he lived
the one who, loosely cautious,
mock threats
of the influence of the stars!
Let's learn to ignore,
thought, because we find
How much do I add to the speech?,
so much I usurp the years.
I
The happy children come out
From school,
Putting in the warm air
From April, tender songs.
What joy the deep
Silence of the alley!
A silence shattered
for laughter of new silver.
II
I'm on my way in the afternoon
Among flowers in the garden,
Leaving on the way
The water of my sadness.
On the lonely mountain
A village cemetery
It looks like a sown field
With skull beads.
And cypress trees have blossomed
Like giant heads
That with empty orbits
And greenish hair
Thoughtful and grieving
The horizon contemplate.
Divine April, you are coming
Loaded with sun and essences
Filled with nests of gold
The flowery skulls!
He told me one afternoon
of spring:
If you are looking for ways
in bloom on earth,
kill your words
and hear your old soul.
That the same white linen
let it dress you
your duel outfit,
your party outfit.
Love your joy
and love your sadness,
if you are looking for roads
in bloom on earth.
I responded to the afternoon
of spring:
-You have told the secret
that in my soul prays:
i hate joy
out of hatred of grief.
More before i step on
your florida path,
I would like to bring you
dead my old soul.
In you I enclosed my hours of joy
And of bitter pain;
Allow at least that in your hours I leave
My soul with my goodbye.
I go to a huge house where they have told me
What is life expiring.
The homeland takes me there. For my country,
To die is to enjoy more.
What if they said I'm like a devastated twilight
where the sadness already fell asleep!
Simple mirror where I pick up the world.
Where I feel loneliness with my happy hand.
My ports have come, gone after the ships
as if wanting to flee from his nostalgia.
The extinguished moons have returned to my flash
that I left with my name shouting duels
until all the silent shadows were mine.
My pupils have returned, tied to the sun of their dawn love.
Oh love entertained in stars and doves,
how happy dew crosses my soul!
Happy! Happy! Happy!
Magnified in cosmic agile gravitations,
without reflection or anything ...
-Locus amoenus (Garcilaso de la Vega)
Streams pure, crystalline waters,
trees that you are looking at in them,
green meadow of fresh shade filled,
birds that here you sow your grievances,
ivy that you walk through the trees,
twisting his step through her green bosom:
I saw myself so alien
of the serious evil that I feel
that of pure contentment
with your loneliness I recreated,
where with sweet sleep he rested,
or with the thought it passed
where I could not find
but memories full of joy.
The honor of living with honor gloriously,
Patriotism towards the nameless homeland,
Sacrifice, yellow-lipped duty,
They are not worth an iron devouring
Little by little some sad body because of themselves.
Down with virtue, order, misery;
Down with everything, everything except defeat,
Defeat to the teeth, to that frozen space
From one head split in two through loneliness,
Knowing nothing but living is being alone with death.
Not even expect that bird with the arms of a woman,
With a man's voice, deliciously obscured,
Because a bird, even if it is in love,
He does not deserve to wait for him, like any monarch
Wait for the towers to ripen to rotten fruit.
Let's just scream,
Let's scream to a wing entirely,
To sink so many skies,
Touching then solitudes with a stuffed hand.
You can't go back
because life already pushes you
like an endless howl.
My daughter it is better to live
with the joy of men
than cry before the blind wall.
You will feel cornered
you will feel lost or alone
maybe you want not to have been born.
I know very well what they will tell you
that life has no purpose
which is an unfortunate matter.
So always remember
of what one day I wrote
thinking of you as I think now.
Life is beautiful, you'll see
as despite the regrets
you will have friends, you will have love.
A lonely man, a woman
taken like this, one by one
they are like dust, they are nothing.
But when I speak to you
when I write these words to you
I also think of other people.
Your destiny is in others
your future is your own life
your dignity is everyone's.
Others hope you resist
may your joy help them
your song among his songs.
So always remember
of what one day I wrote
Thinking of you
as I think now.
Never give up or turn away
by the way, never say
I can't take it anymore and here I stay.
Life is beautiful, you will see
as despite the regrets
you will have love, you will have friends.
Otherwise there is no choice
and this world as it is
it will be all your heritage.
Forgive me, I don't know how to tell you
nothing else but you understand
that I'm still on the road.
And always always remember
of what one day I wrote
thinking of you as I think now
To the old elm, split by lightning
and in its rotten half,
with the April rains and the May sun
some green leaves have come out.
The hundred-year-old elm on the hill
that licks the Duero! A yellowish moss
stains the whitish bark
to the rotten and dusty trunk.
It will not be, like the singing poplars
that guard the road and the shore,
inhabited by brown nightingales.
Army of ants in a row
it is climbing up it, and in its entrails
spiders weave their gray webs.
Before I knock you down, Duero elm,
with his ax the woodcutter, and the carpenter
I turned you into a bell hair,
wagon lance or wagon yoke;
before red at home, tomorrow,
burn from some miserable hut,
on the edge of a road;
before a whirlwind takes you down
and cut off the breath of the white mountains;
before the river pushes you to the sea
through valleys and ravines,
elm, I want to note in my portfolio
the grace of your green branch.
My heart waits
also, towards the light and towards life,
another miracle of spring.
I said: Everything already full.
A poplar tree vibrated.
The silver leaves
They rang with love.
Greens were gray,
Love was sunshine.
Then noon,
A bird plunged
Your singing in the wind
With such adoration
That it felt sung
Under the wind the flower
Grown between the harvests,
Higher. It was me,
Center at that moment
From so much around,
Who saw it all
Complete for a god.
I said: All, complete.
Twelve on the clock!
It is not the guitar that makes you happy
or chase away fear at midnight
It is not his round and meek staff
like an ox's eye
It is not the hand that grazes or clings to the strings
looking for the sounds
but the human voice when it sings
and spread the dreams of man.
Right now, sitting alone, longing and thoughtful,
It seems to me that in other lands there are other men who are also eager and thoughtful,
It seems to me that I can look even further and see them in Germania, Italy, France, Spain,
And far, even more, in China, or in Russia, or in Japan, speaking other dialects,
And I think that if it were possible for me to meet these men
I would unite with them, just as I do with the men of my own land,
Oh! I understand that we would become brothers and lovers,
I know that I would become happy with them.
Half of the beauty depends on the landscape;
and the other half of the person looking at her ...
The brightest sunrises; the most romantic sunsets;
the most incredible paradises;
can always be found on the faces of loved ones.
When there are no lakes clearer and deeper than your eyes;
when there are no caves of wonders comparable to his mouth;
when there is no rain to overcome her crying;
nor sun that shines more than his smile ...
Beauty does not make the possessor happy;
but who can love and adore her.
That is why it is so nice to look at each other when those faces
they become our favorite landscapes ... .
How beautiful it is to see the day
crowned with fire rise,
and to his kiss of fire
the waves shine and the air ignite!
How beautiful it is after the rain
of the sad Autumn in the blue afternoon,
of the wet flowers
the perfume inhale until satiated!
How beautiful it is when flaked
the white silent snow falls,
from the restless flames
see the reddish tongues flailing!
How beautiful it is when there is sleep
sleep well ... and snore like a sochantre ...
and eat ... and get fat ... and what a fortune
that this alone is not enough!
The pure air ran
for my black hair.
My white dream was
a very fine petal.
An opal that the air
he kissed with delight.
How good they smelled countryside
the sea, the slight breeze.
My eyes always see you, city of my marine days.
Hanging from the imposing mountain, barely stopped
in your vertical fall to the blue waves,
you seem to reign under the sky, over the waters,
intermediate in the air, as if a happy hand
I would have held you, a moment of glory, before sinking forever in the loving waves.
But you last, you never descend, and the sea sighs
or roar for you, city of my happy days,
mother city and very white where I lived and remember,
Angelic city that, higher than the sea, presides over its foams.
Barely, mild, musical streets. Gardens
where tropical flowers raise their youthful thick palms.
Palms of light that overhead, winged,
sway the brightness of the breeze and suspend
for an instant heavenly lips that cross
bound for remote, magical islands,
that there in the indigo blue, freed, they sail.
There I also lived, there, a funny city, a deep city.
There where the young slip on the kind stone,
and where the glittering walls always kiss
to those who always cross, kettles, in glitters.
There I was led by a maternal hand.
Perhaps a sad guitar from a flowery fence
he sang the sudden song suspended in time;
still the night, quieter the lover,
under the eternal moon that instantaneously passes.
A breath of eternity could destroy you,
prodigious city, moment that in the mind of a God you emerged.
Men lived for a dream, they did not live,
eternally bright as a divine breath.
Gardens, flowers. Sea encouraging like an arm that yearns
to the flying city between mountains and abyss,
white in the air, with the quality of a suspenseful bird
than ever above. Oh city not on earth!
By that maternal hand I was carried lightly
through your lifeless streets. Bare foot in the day.
Foot naked at night. Big moon. Pure sun.
There the sky was you, the city that you lived in.
City that you flew in with your open wings.
Beyond the orb to roll slower
comes the sigh that my chest exhales:
new intellect with which love climbs
Heavenly height on the wings of lament.
When he reaches the peak of his attempt
the woman sees that no other equals
for its splendor: to whom everything points
of Love for the highest performance.
Seeing her like this, with a subtle, fiery voice,
Love speaks to the aching heart
who interrogates him and does not understand anything.
It is I who speak to me and to the beauty
member of Beatriz, everything flashes
and my enlightened mind understands.
I am vertical.
But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with roots in the ground
absorbing minerals and maternal love
so that every March the leaves bloom,
nor am I the beauty of the garden
brightly colored that attracts exclamations of admiration
ignoring that it will soon lose its petals.
Compared to me, a tree is immortal
and a flower, although not so tall, is more striking,
And I want the longevity of one and the bravery of the other.
Tonight, under the infinitesimal light of the stars,
the trees and flowers have shed their fresh scents.
I walk between them but they don't realize.
Sometimes I think that when I'm sleeping
I must look like them to perfection,
already darkened the thoughts.
For me it is more natural to be lying.
That's when the sky and I talk freely,
And so I will be useful when I finally shop:
then the trees can touch me for once,
and the flowers will have time for me.
The true pleasure is not breathed in the city,
Not even in the temples where Art dwells,
Nor in palaces and towers where
The voice of Greatness stirs.
No. Look where High Nature holds
His court among majestic groves,
Where she unleashes all her riches,
Moving in cool beauty;
Where thousands of birds with the sweetest voices,
Where the wild storm rages
And thousands of streams glide smoothly,
There his mighty concert is formed.
Go where the cloaked forest dreams,
Bathed in pale moonlight,
Towards the vault of cradling branches
The hollow sounds of the Night.
Go where the inspired nightingale
Kick off vibes with your song,
Until all the lonely and still valley
Sound like a circular symphony.
Go sit on a mountain ledge
And look at the world around you;
The hills and hollows,
The sound of the streams,
The distant horizon tied.
Then look at the wide sky above your head,
The motionless, deep dome of blue,
The sun that casts its golden rays,
The clouds like pearls of azure.
And as your gaze rests on this vast scene
Your thoughts will certainly travel far,
Although unknown years should pass between
The swift and fleeting moments of Time.
Towards the age where the Earth was young,
When the Fathers, gray and old,
They praised their God with a song,
Listening in silence to his mercy.
You will see them with their snow beards,
With clothes of wide shapes,
Their peaceful lives, gently floating,
They seldom felt the passion of the storm.
Then a quiet, solemn pleasure will penetrate
In the innermost part of your mind;
In that delicate aura your spirit will feel
A new, quiet softness.
In my garden a bird advances
on a spoked wheel-
of persistent music
like a wandering mill-
never delay
about the ripe rose-
test without perching
praise when leaving,
when he tasted all the flavors-
his magic cabriolet
going to swirl in the distance-
so I approach my dog,
and we both wonder
if our vision was real-
or if we would have dreamed the garden
and those curiosities-
But he, for being more logical,
points to my clumsy eyes-
the vibrant flowers!
Subtle answer!
Who doesn't take a look at the sun when it gets dark?
Who takes their eyes off a comet when it crashes?
Who does not listen to a bell when for some fact it tolls?
Who can ignore that bell whose music takes him out of this world?
No man is an island of his own.
Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the whole.
If the sea takes a piece of land, all of Europe is diminished,
as if it were a promontory, or the house of one of your friends, or your own.
No person is an island; anyone's death affects me,
because I am united to all humanity;
so never ask for whom the bell tolls; fold for you.
My heart, stay close to the one who knows your ways
Come under the shade of the tree that comforts with fresh flowers,
Don't wander nonchalantly through the perfumers' bazaar,
Stay in the sugar bowl shop.
If you do not find the true balance, anyone can deceive you:
Anyone can decorate something made of straw
And make you take it for gold.
Don't bow down with a bowl over any boiling pot
In each pot on the stove, you will find very different things:
Not in all the canes there is sugar, not in all the abysses there are peaks;
Not all eyes can see, not all seas abound pearls.
Oh nightingale, with your voice of dark honey! Keep regretting!
Only your ecstasy can penetrate the hard heart of the rock!
Give up and if the Friend does not welcome you,
You will know that your insides are unfolding like a thread
Who does not want to go through the eye of a needle!
The awakened heart is a lamp, protect it with the hem of your mantle!
Hurry and escape this wind because the weather is adverse.
And when you have escaped, you will reach a source
And there you will find a Friend who will always nourish your soul
And with your soul always fertile, you will become a great tree that grows inside
Bearing sweet fruit forever.
I sing for myself, a simple and isolated person,
Yet I pronounce the word democracy, the word Mass.
I sing to the human organism from head to toe,
My Muse's unique motives are not the physiognomy alone nor only the brain,
I say that the complete form is worthy,
And I sing to the woman the same as I sing to the Macho.
Life immense in passion, pulse, power,
The happy life, formed in the freest action,
under the rule of divine laws
I sing to the modern man.
From time to time joy throws pebbles against my window.
He wants to let me know that he is there waiting, but I feel calm I would almost say equanimous.
I'm going to hide my anguish and then lie down facing the ceiling, which is a gallant and comfortable position to filter news and believe it..
Who knows where my next footprints are or when my story will be computed, who knows what advice I will still invent and what shortcut I will find so as not to follow them.
Okay, I will not play eviction, I will not tattoo the memory with forgetfulness, much remains to be said and silenced and there are also grapes to fill the mouth.
Okay, I am persuaded that joy will not throw more pebbles, I will open the window, I will open the window.
Positive phrases
Phrases of happiness
Literary skulls for children and teachers
Reflection phrases
Yet No Comments