Gabriela Mistral Quotes
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There is the joy of being healthy and fair, but there is overall the beauty, the immense joy of being useful.
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Love that stammers, that stutters, is apt to be the love that loves best.
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Many things we need can wait. The child cannot. Now is the time his bones are formed, his mind developed. To him we cannot say tomorrow, his name is today.
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Now my belly is as noble as my heart.
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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.
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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.'
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The poet is an untier of knots, and love without words is a knot, and it drowns.
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Love beauty it is the shadow of God on the universe.
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Speech is our second possession, after the soul-and perhaps we have no other possession in this world.
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You shall create beauty not to excite the senses but to give sustenance to the soul.
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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!
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At this moment, by an undeserved stroke of fortune, I am the direct voice of the poets of my race and the indirect voice for the noble Spanish and Portuguese tongues.
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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.
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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.
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My grief and my smile begin in your face, my son.
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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.
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Let the earth look at me, and bless me, for now I am fecund and sacred, like the palms and the furrows.
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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.
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I have all that I lost and I go carrying my childhood like a favorite flower that perfumes my hand.
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Now I am nothing but a veil; all my body is a veil beneath which a child sleeps.
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For me, religiosity is ... the constant remembrance of the presence of the soul.
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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.
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What the soul is to the body, so is the artist to his people.